Tales of A Schmaltzy, Self Centered Old Geezer
by Emper0rH0rde
Summary: In a world where nothing makes any sense, Lucian tries to find out why his bitter inexplicable relative, Lord Viktor, refuses to let anyone use the mysterious 'Zurg Room,' but is unprepared for just how bizarre things get. Very, very AU.
1. In Which We Freeze Our Asses Off

**Author's note: **_I didn't actually write this all myself. This is - or used to be - a book that my oldest sister wrote when she was 13 or 14. First our parents were raving about it, then both sets of grandparents were raving about it, then more of our extended family were raving about it, then everyone at our then-church was raving about it. Then in 1999 (or something like that) we flew to freakin' Minnesota to visit my Dad's relatives and there were people who I'd never seen or heard of in my life, and THEY knew about it. I'd say it was starting to drive me up the wall, but it already was. I was bloody sick of all the praise; you'd think it was 'Great Expectations' the way everyone was so pumped up about it. There were even rumors that it was going to be PUBLISHED. I don't even remember how it all died down._

_Fast forward at least 8 1/2 years. My sister is now in her 20's and I find the old manuscript of her book and remind her of it. Turns out, she HATES it now, and can't believe she ever wrote such a lousy piece of lovey-dovey, syrupy greevel (her inspiration for it came from us setting up the dining room for our parents' wedding anniversary, or something). So I tell her that I could make it better by graffiti-ing it. Graffiti-ing books is a talent of mine. Not a marketable talent, but a talent nonetheless (and I'm not prideful about it). I believe her exact words were: "THAT WOULD BE AWESOME!"_

_First thing I did was set it in modern day (or something resembling modern day), because it was originally set in 1857. Then I changed all the characters, mostly to people from Underworld, but there are names from other things as well, including original names. Then I added overly exaggerated, totally random things that made what was once unintentionally funny _intentionally _funny._

_This is the final result. I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

**Chapter 1 - In Which We Schlep Around In Bone-Chilling Weather and Freeze Our Asses Off**

Budapest, Hungary – Snow covered the sidewalks of the city, slowly turning to wet slush as pedestrians and bikers went back and forth over the frozen concrete. The Budapestians were busy people; they weren't about to let a little frozen water vapor get in the way of the regular city stuff and daily thingamajiggies. The morning sun, sending out golden beams to undo the work of the gray clouds, discovered pesky icicles clinging for dear life on the eaves of the buildings that bordered the bustling city streets. Freezing water dripped slowly – and not so slowly – from ice-hung trees and decorative bushes; a seaweed tree shed its burdens with creaks and groans.

In the outskirts of the city, boys shoveled driveways begrudgingly – school was out, owing to the fact that the building got blown up by a six-year-old in an F-16 (luckily, there was no one in the building at the time) – but all the while they were eyeing the ankle deep snow and telling each other how perfect it was for snow-football.

Near the center of the city, there was, incredibly, more activity!! The streets were full of cyclists, cars, and trucks. Kids dodged back and forth, trying to escape their parents. Men strode purposefully along the sidewalks, or stood together, remarking how inconvenient the snowfall was for the building of the new 22,000-capacity stadium for Budapest Honvéd FC, the local football club. Apparently, some bone-headed idiot (who had obviously grown up near the Equator) decided to break ground in February, when the ground was frozen solid as marble and one needed a jackhammer just to dig a hole that was only six inches deep. Cliques of teenaged girls chatted together, full of the latest gossip. Coffee and hot chocolate stands were in abundance, for business was always good when there were freeze-ass temperatures; little knots of people formed around the portable store-fronts, obstructing the flow like rocks in a stream.

Oblivious to the crowd that rushed and foamed like a Colorado rapid, a young man lycanthrope and a vampiress stood on a street corner yakking.

Girls sulked and threw envious looks at the girl; the young man was – judging from his thousand euro coat and general attire – filthy rich, not to mention hot. His face was well made; the jawline was smooth and slightly pointed, and his nose was pleasing, ever-so-slightly crooked. The wind played delightedly with his hair, a river of chestnut brown that spilled from his head to just below his shoulders. He had a twinkle in his dark eyes; they contrasted unexpectedly with his firm, solid eyebrows that promised a stern and dignified appearance in the future.

The girl was white and fair; her butter-blonde hair was twisted up underneath a fuzzy black winter hat, and her face was sweet and feminine. Well… duh to the latter. The eyes were blue-gray pools surrounded, on the upper lid, by a curve of long, dark lashes; the rest of the face was smooth and undisturbed. Her voice could just be heard, floating like a cool breeze above the noises of the city.

"Maybe we should go to the confectioner's for the yummy stuff, Lucian. Seriously, one can hardly expect the grocery store to carry so darn many varieties. Besides, most of what they have is inappropriate for younger kids," she added.

"Ditto!" the lycanthrope – Lucian – answered. "I nearly broke a tooth on one of those peanutty-toffee whatchamadingles. In fact, Sonja, I'd probably have choked to death if you hadn't heimliched me." Looking up and seeing that the pedestrian light had turned green or blue or whatever the heck color it turns in Hungary, he offered Sonja his gloved hand, and they stepped off the curb and crossed the street.

"This was a good idea," remarked Sonja, gathering her expensive Tommy Hilfiger coat closer around her; the wind had begun whistling briskly, temperatures dropped another five degrees due to windchill.

"Uh, what was?" asked Lucian, his mind elsewhere. He guided her around a Pit-of-Carkoon pothole as if she were blind and couldn't see the thrashing tentacles.

Sonja looked rather exasperated. "We were just talking about it, Lucian! Getting candy and stuff for the younger servants and blah blah. I love seeing their delighted faces get all sticky." She laughed, then sighed. "It sucked that Lord Viktor wouldn't let us put a Christmas tree for the servants in that little corner room. What the heck do you think could possibly be in there?"

"What? You mean the South Wing Lounge?" asked Lucian. "I've never seen the daddanged door open in my life."

"Yeah, but why do you think he shut it up like that?"

"I have no idea," said Lucian, stifling a snicker.

Sonja looked at him with eyes full of amusement. "Remember that time when you tried to get in?" she asked, smiling.

Lucian laughed. "Yeah." He now shook with laughter. "You should have seen it! He totally freaked! And I was there! He went all red!" He tried to go on, but couldn't speak and belly-laugh at the same time. "I've said this before, 'drawing Viktor is easy, you just make a big mouth and add some hair'!"

Afraid Lucian would pass out from laughing, Sonja decided to change the subject before she had to get on her cellphone and call the paramedics. "I don't know about you, but I'd personally like to see the inside of that room. It must be positively remarkable."

"Oh, it's already that. And not necessarily in a good way. If only Viktor hadn't declared it off-limits."

Sonja sighed again. "I'm sure he must have had his reasons. But I would like to see it someday. Can you imagine watching The X-Files in it?" Sonja fell silent, thinking of the 52-inch plasma screen TV that probably resided inside the room.

Lucian turned slowly to look at her, almost as if he had just received a transorbital lobotomy. Quickly, he transferred his gaze to—the hot brunette walking in front of them. Beh! The sidewalk!

"Yeah, that'd be terrific," Lucian mumbled indistinctly. He glanced at her again.

For a moment Sonja's eyes, turned unseeingly toward the street, were dreamy and deep; then a troubled look came over her face.

"What?" asked Lucian.

She didn't reply immediately. At length she said, "Oh, it's nothing. I'm just a little concerned about Viktor. He seems……"

"Cantankerous?"

"No."

"Rancorous?"

"No, dumbass!"

"Constantly crabby?"

"Disconsolate. It seems unnatural."

Lucian stifled a wild guffaw. "Want to know what's unnatural? Viktor smiling, or wearing any kind of expression besides a glum or angry one. If he told a funny joke rather than explode in someone's face like a freaking land mine, _then_ I'd get concerned, because THAT is unnatural. Trust me, Sonja, he's acting just like he always has. At least in my lifetime."

Sonja dropped the subject. It was going nowhere.

After they had bought their candies and stuff, the two young people made their way back toward their car.

"This candy should be sufficient," Sonja informed Lucian, examining the clumsily wrapped bundles; she drew the cloth back over them protectively as they passed under a tree that schlumped heaps of snow onto them.

After they dug themselves out of the snow mountain, Lucian threw a hungry glance toward the shopping bag. "You wouldn't happen to have any extra, would you?" he asked.

Sonja rummaged around in the bag and produced a single banana shaped candycandycandycandycandycandycandy. "One."

"Mmm, thanks. I love candycandycandycandycandycandycandy," Lucian stated, as if this was something new and turned the tiny yummy thing into a sugar orgy.

"So I hear."

Awkward silence.

Presently Sonja started to speak again. "Man, I hope Viktor doesn't carp about us spending so much money."

"If he does, well tough beans to him," said Lucian. "The money that was used was mine anyway – out of the dough that I made when I was still playing for my college football club. He wouldn't be seen dead doing something like this for his loyal servants – the old fricked up fuddy-duddy. Only you could have thought that up." He stole a glance at her, watching for her reaction. One of his favorite pastimes – next to football and CSI: Miami – was to say things, or pose a problem, and watch how Sonja responded.

She didn't see the glance, but continued on, blithely unaware of anything but a perfectly honest motive in his comment. "Lucian, you know as well as I do that the idea was every bit as much your idea as it was mine."

Lucian fell silent, pondering this; realizing that Sonja didn't give a crap, or even believe that it was her idea. She wasn't just trying to curry favor with him. Too bad he wasn't like that; too often he gave himself all the credit. At least he was aware of his fault. That showed that he was still salvageable. And he hadn't taken the credit for this idea – maybe he wasn't so horrible after all.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by a shrill voice, hailing him from across the street. "Hey, Lucian!" it cried.

Lucian glanced over in the direction of the voice, and let loose the groan to end all groans. A young vampire girl named Dominique Ačimovič hurried across the road, her purple velvet scarf blowing this way and that in the wind. She hugged her lavish, fur-trimmed coat to herself.

"Lucian!" she called again, grinning from ear to ear; it made her mouth seem wider than Guy Smiley's; Lucian half-expected the top of her head to flap back and forth when she spoke. "OMG I've been looking for you all day! Dashboard Confessional is coming to the Torghelle Nightclub, and you positively HAVE to come with Nicolae and Diego and me! OMG Incubus are opening, of which I am SOOOO glad because Brandon Boyd is SOOOO hot!" she added, with an inane giggle. "I told Nicolae and Diego that you are the best crowd surfer in the _world_ and that you were _sure_ to come. _Won't_ you? Please? PLEASE? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzz? Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseprettyplease? I just bought a brand-new Ford Mustang, and Kahn is bringing his Ferrari, and you've_ got_ to come! We really couldn't do without you!" she concluded in a breath. Her smile was sugary sweet as she gazed up into his face; Lucian was hard-put to stop himself from grimacing. He didn't care much for Dashboard Confessional. Or Incubus, for that matter. The mere thought of going to see them with a hyper vampire trollop and that slimeball Nicolae, both of whom he couldn't stand, was more than he could bear.

"Thank you for the invitation, Dominique," he said gravely, trying to quell his disgust, "However, I'm—"

Here Dominique broke in, aghast. "Aw, come on, don't say you can't come! We totally couldn't do without you, you and I being such old friends and all," she declared, with an insinuating glance through her fake eyelashes. "You can ride in my Mustang, of course – the other boys can ride in the Ferrari – and we can listen to Stereophonics on the way! Do come, it'll be so much fun!" Dominique halted, noticing Sonja for the first time; her giggle trailed off. "Oh, hey, Sonja, fancy meeting you here," Dominique said, in a tone that made it abundantly clear that she was less than pleased about it. "What's up with you and Lucian – trying to get him to buy _Titanic_ for you?" she asked maliciously. "I'm surprised he even condescended to walk with you, let alone enter into deep conversation."

"What Lucian does is his own daddang business, and none of yours, so back off," said Sonja coolly. Only her smoldering eyes betrayed her indignation.

Dominique ignored the remark haughtily and went on in her malevolent tone. "By the way, Sonja, Lorenz will probably arrive soon from Székesféhervár. You know, of course, that he's thinking of going to a military school there. He's bringing a buddy with him – Michael somebody. But of course, neither of them would ever dream of looking at you."

"Beat it!" Sonja snapped.

With movements as twitchy as a blue-tailed skink, Dominique turned her back to Lucian and started walking away.

"Dad_dang_, I freaking hate those presumptuous schuttas who thrust themselves unceremoniously in front of people like that," Sonja remarked to Lucian, in an icy, incensed tone.

"That makes two of us," replied Lucian, giving Sonja a sidelong glance.

Sonja was about to protest, but upon catching the twinkle in Lucian's eyes, bit her lip to check her sudden giggle.

Dominique stopped for a moment, slightly confused by – and jealous of – the silent interplay between Sonja and Lucian. Disregarding it instantly, she rattled on as before. "Don't even think about refusing," Dominique repeated breathlessly. "I'll be counting every second," she crooned. With that, the girl bolted like a squirrel.

Sonja and Lucian stood still, looking after her. Sonja's face was cold and expressionless, like a wax statue; Lucian's was a mask of no-holds-barred disgust.

Sonja was the first to break the silence. "Well, Lucian?"

"What?" he responded, a bit impatiently, his mind was somewhere else.

"Are you going to accept her invitation?" Her tone was flat, but underneath was a vein of anxiety.

Lucian regarded her blankly. "What do you think?" he asked.

Unexpectedly, they caught the sound of a car horn. Turning, Lucian and Sonja beheld a jet black Cadillac Escalade careening down the street at sickening speeds – pedestrians dove for cover as motorists swerved onto the sidewalks in an attempt to avoid being plowed over by the rampaging SUV.

Lucian's brow darkened; drivers like that should have their license taken away and their vehicle impounded.

Suddenly a small boy, for no apparent reason, dashed out into the middle of the street. He slid on the snow and shrieked with laughter, landing on his back and spinning around. The boy was blissfully unaware of his grave peril as the massive Cadillac tore toward him.


	2. In Which Stuff Happens

_Disclaimer: Underworld, Hellboy, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring are not mine, but since I don't make any money out of this, I have broken no law._

**Chapter 2 - In Which Stuff Happens**

A woman on the sidewalk screamed. "Piotr! My baby! Somebody save him!"

The black SUV thundered closer; the little boy simply sat there, cross-legged, expressionless, in the middle of the street, like somebody out of a Stephen King novel, still totally unaware of the horror and shock of the people around him.

Time as it was known stopped then and there. The onlookers stood rooted to the ground, united in fear and dread; the sun halted in its path across the sky to watch; beads of water dripping from icicles hung in midair, suspended in time.

Lucian stood still, caught between wanting to save the boy and his own dread. Thoughts rushed through his head in a maelstrom of emotion. What if the boy was run over? He would surely be killed. And the mother? Lucian remembered her scream of agony. She would be devastated.

"Screw this!" Lucian lunged out into the street, Sonja's screamed protests ringing in his ears. He stood in the middle of the road, and held up his red-gloved hand. Still the massive vehicle didn't even slow down.

In the span of a second, his arm grew in mass. The skin darkened, the hair thickened, swelling muscles stretched his coat sleeve to the seams. He bought his clenched fist down onto the hood of the oncoming SUV with a bone-jarring crunch.

"RED MEANS STOP!"

Propelled by its momentum, the Cadillac sailed harmlessly over Lucian and the little boy, flipping over twice in midair, and landed on its wheels with an earsplitting clang.

"BOO YEAH!"

Then, as quickly as it had changed, Lucian's arm returned to normal. He calmly returned to the sidewalk with the little boy, who, by now, was, to say the least, visibly shaken.

Sonja was ashen-faced, open-mouthed and wide-eyed as Lucian stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Lucian!" she managed to force out. "Please don't do that again!"

Lucian, rubbing his arm, set the boy down and let out a deep breath. He took one of her hands. "Okay," he said, "next time I'll just stand by and let the kid get smeared all over the street."

"Piotr! Piotr!" A woman with a frail, careworn face pushed her way through the thick wall of curious onlookers. She dropped to her knees and clasped the boy in her arms. She spoke tearfully to him in what sounded like Czech, or Bulgarian, or some East European language, and burst into tears, hugging him to herself.

Piotr, who had not realized his danger until that moment, started to blubber, clinging tight to his mother's faded calico dress, babbling in baby Czech.

The feeling was starting to come back into Lucian's arm as the reality of what had just occurred caught up with him. Awkwardly, he flexed several times. And regretted it.

_I'm gonna need big time Physique when I get home!_

Sonja reached out towards the woman. "Here, let me help you," she said gently. The woman grasped Sonja's hand and slowly rose to her feet.

"I don't know what you are or how you did that, but thank you," the woman said to Lucian, still crying softly. "I don't know what I would have done if…" Her voice trailed off, and she clutched her son more closely.

Lucian's voice was husky. "I was happy to do it," he said. "I've always wanted to say 'boo yeah,' too, that was awesome. _Boo yeah!_"

"What's your name, ma'am?" Sonja asked, offering her a Reese's peanut butter cup (the small kind).

The woman accepted the candy gladly. "I'm Jana Rosický," she replied. "My husband is – well, was – the plumber," Mrs. Rosický began to cry again.

Sonja was surprised. "Is something else wrong?"

The woman hesitated. "I don't want to trouble you with my problems," Jana said, awkwardly. "After all you've done, it wouldn't be right." She turned as if to leave.

"Oh, no, please tell us," Sonja urged. "We just might be able to help."

"I doubt that," the woman said, glumly. "My husband lost his job. That's not much to worry about, since there's plenty of work available for a plumber, but – he got really sick and I don't know what to do."

"There must be something you can get," said Lucian incredulously. The days when he had been just a ragged lycan bum – before Lord Viktor had taken him in – were now so distant that he no longer remembered them clearly. (What does that have to do with anything?)

The woman shook her head. "The only thing we have is what my oldest daughter and I make by sewing, and that's not a whole lot. Sure as heck not enough to make a living with." She looked up, her eyes full of distress. "I have four kids to feed, not to mention my husband, who needs medication and special care. And as if that wasn't bad enough, our slimeball-extortionist of a landlord visited yesterday and told me that if I didn't pay him by the end of the week, he'd kill us all in our beds one by one. So I'm _really_ in a bind."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Sonja, dismayed. "I wish we could give you a housekeeping job, but our only position is already filled by Lucian's great arch-nemesis Amelia."

Lucian growled and swore under his breath; if there was one person who he absolutely hated on the planet, it was Amelia.

Sonja looked unhappy; she was now hellbent on helping this impoverished woman. Yet she was reluctant to offer her money; she knew from experience that it wasn't that simple. Sonja was convinced that Jana Rosický was not trying to swindle them; this woman was in need. But she wasn't about to accept money from a pair of wealthy – and for all Mrs. Rosický knew, snobby – strangers. Suddenly, Sonja remembered. "Lucian," she said quickly, "didn't Amelia disembowel one of the lycanthrope slaves for missing one molecule of dust in her apartment last week?"

Lucian nodded and grimaced. "It took the other slaves the better part of a day to get all the blood mopped up and she's been hounding for a new one ever since."

Sonja turned to the woman. "Are any of your kids old enough to work?"

"I guess so," replied the woman, lifting her son onto her hip. Piotr smiled at Lucian and quickly looked away. "Tomáš is old enough for a slave job. Sure, he has his faults, but I'm sure with the right training he could become a slave. Then again, who the heck wants untrained slaves?" she broke out. "What's the point?"

Sonja threw a glance at Lucian, who gave a quick, imperceptible nod coupled with an approving glance. She turned back to the woman. "Well, that just happens to be exactly what we want," she said eagerly. "At our mansion, we take in kids – be it lycanthrope or vampire, hybrid or human – and train them to be slaves; it's really the best way to obtain loyal and trustworthy workers. So we'd like to hire your son – we'd have to board him at our own house, but his wages would be upwards of fifty euros a week, paid directly to your family."

Mrs. Rosický began to say something, but Sonja rushed on before she could object. "We're the Žewłakows," she blurted, then slapped her forehead, embarrassed. "Let me rephrase that. This is Lucian Žewłakow and I'm Sonja Dumak. Surely you've heard of the Ördögház estate. We live there."

"What? You mean _the_ Ördögház? You want my boy to be a slave _there_?" Mrs. Rosický was absolutely dumfounded. Ördögház was renowned, in prestigious residences, for its well-trained slaves; in lowly apartments, it was known for its high wages and generous quarters. The one thing that was left out in matters of blab, incredibly, was the fact that many of the slaves – and higher ranked people – were either haughty, resentful, hateful, arrogant, self-centered, insolent, or all of the above and quadrupled.

But still Jana hesitated. "I don't know," she said slowly, "whether Lubos would approve…"

"Is he your husband?" asked Sonja, with a warning glance at Lucian. She knew his limits of patience.

The little boy interrupted them both and gibbered something in baby Czech, with amazing comprehension.

Jana squeezed his hand tightly and swallowed hard, then brought her eyes up to Sonja's. "Okay, I accept. Thank you both," she said emotionally. "You have no idea how much you've done for us."

"No need for thanks, citizen," responded Lucian with a smile, quite relieved that she had FINALLY made up her mind. "We'll run him so ragged he won't have time to think. If he's unsatisfactory as a house slave, I'm sure we could find him some kind of occupation. Do you know the way?"

"Yes, of course. You're so good to us!"

"No, not really," said Sonja. "We need him just as much as you need the job. It takes a lot of people, be it lycanthrope, vampire, hybrid, or human to keep up a big estate like Ördögház. Will you be so kind as to send your son along tomorrow afternoon?"

Mrs. Rosický started to say something, and Sonja hurried on. "As soon as you can spare him, that is. Don't worry about the clothes; we provide uniforms for the slaves, since Viktor prefers strict organization."

"This is just like a dream," Jana cried. "I don't know how to thank you."

Lucian grinned impishly. "You'll probably come to yourself when your family gets his first wages. But here, wait! What the heck am I thinking? Here's a week's pay in advance. Please, take it." He pulled out his wallet and drew out a fifty euro note.

"Oh, wow," said Mrs. Rosický, reaching out with a trembling hand and accepting the money. "Thank you so much!" She laughed; there was a hysterical note to it. "I have to go home now," she said breathlessly; "my husband and kids must know as soon as possible." She picked up Piotr, who wrinkled his nose good-naturedly and clung to her sleeve; Mrs. Rosický turned and ran down the street. She shrunk, getting smaller and smaller until she disappeared into an alley.

Sonja watched her, a look of doubtfulness coming over her face. "Uh, should we have done that, Lucian?" she asked. "I guess I really didn't think. What if her son turns out to be a lazy dumbass??" she said, with increasing uneasiness. "I only saw how unhappy she was and – dang, do you think that was the right thing to do?"

"I've no doubt," Lucian answered reassuringly. "Let's go back to the mansion, I'm freezing my ass off."

Neither of them mentioned the incident again.

They walked back together to the corner where the limousine was parked. Ümit Davala, the chauffeur, exited the driver's seat and opened the doors for them. Lucian let Sonja in first, then took a seat beside her.

"Ümit Davala, back to Ördögház," Lucian said, taking care not to say too much; the chauffeur was from Turkey and knew only enough Hungarian to get by. Lucian, himself, spoke not a word of Turkish.

Ümit started the engine, which was quiet and smooth, turned the heater on and started off down the street at a brisk pace. Looking out the elegant car's windows was like looking at a painting. Of a city, that is; the storefronts, apartment buildings and whatnot, all transformed into… CITY DWELLINGS IN THE WINTER (Dump-da-da-DAH!) by the cold white glop that lay everywhere.

Soon, though, the city melted into a forest, the trees stretching upward to brush the brilliant, white sky. Snow sparkled on the ground, and the trees, swaying in a crisp, bone-chilling breeze, glistened with ice until they looked as if they were carved out of marble. Here and there crows could be seen, flitting from one icy branch to another and cawing. The occasional swarm of starlings could also be glimpsed; their blue-black plummage showed in brilliant contrast against the white snow.

The limousine drove on through the forest. Soon they arrived at a bridge! Isn't that incredible!

As the long car rolled across the bridge, icicles and small bits of hardened snow rained down on the frozen stream, dislodged by the vibrations.

Soon the forest began to thin somewhat, and a gothic estate could be glimpsed through the trees. A stately, dark mansion rose from the ground, surrounded by gardens now in the grip of the icy Hungarian winter; tall hedges and marble paths, slender trees and round ponds, now frozen over so that they looked like glass.

The limousine turned down the lane leading to the mansion and drove through the impressive, ornate steel gate – a signature of Ördögház. A large V, lavishly embellished, was set in the center of the gate; it stood for the name, Viktor.

Ümit slowed the limousine to a stop and stood by the front door. Then he got out and opened the door for his passengers.

Lucian exited the car first; he was followed by Sonja and together they walked up the steps of the mansion. A slave girl, who had been giving her all just to keep the door open, admitted them into the house.

"Well, thanks for coming out with me, Lucian," Sonja said, stepping over the threshold. The girl let the massive door fall shut.

"My pleasure," Lucian replied, "I enjoyed it."

Sonja laughed. "That's great." Off-handedly, she remarked, "We really should hire a doorman. Preferrably one with a barrel chest and huge biceps."

"Oh, why?" Lucian asked, interested.

Sonja explained, "The door is so darn heavy, you practically need to be a He-Man just to get it open an inch."

Lucian looked at her quizzically. "Really? I noticed that girl managed to open it and she sure as heck isn't a He-Man."

Sonja looked slightly irritated. "Okay, let me rephrase that. We should hire a doorman who has a history of working out."

"Yeah, or some hybrid."

Sonja would have said more, but just then a slave materialized to take their wraps and temporarily distracted her. After Lucian had relinquished his coat, he left Sonja, went to the library door and looked in.

"Hm, that's weird," Lucian muttered to himself.

"What's weird?" asked Sonja, who had followed him across the great hall.

"Viktor's not here," he replied. "He must be out."

"Uh, yeah, Lucian. A couple of days ago, he said he was going to Melbourne for an undisclosed reason. Something about that singer Kylie Minogue," said Sonja, gazing dubiously at him.

"Viktor? Kylie? What on earth for?"

"I don't know. I stopped asking questions at 'Kylie Minogue.'"

"Oh, right." Lucian shut the library door. "Well, there are things that I must see to." He started off in the direction of his apartment.

"What things?" Sonja was following him.

He turned and looked at her frankly. "Questions. Questions that need answering!" he said dramatically.

(Beat)

Sonja stared at him, incredulous. She blinked twice. "Cut the Gandalf crap. What things are you talking about?"

"Things like refusing Dominique Ačimovič."

"Oh," said Sonja. "Good luck with that."

"Gee thanks," called Lucian, as he marched up the staircase. "I'll probably need it."


	3. In Which Nothing Happens

_If I owned Underworld, I'd have better things to do with it than this._

* * *

**Chapter 3 - In Which Nothing Happens**

"Olga! _Olga!_ HEY, OLGA! Where the heck are you? Olga!"

Several days later, a young vampire slave girl was tearing about in the kitchens of Ördögház. The kitchen was attractive; spotless counters shone in florescent lights that lined the white ceiling, and chrome cabinets – with equally shiny handles – added an air of restaurantness not usually present in most households. By one wall was a large utility sink; this was used to wash the dishes and other table stuff besides table cloths. A shallow depth of now-cool water lay at the bottom.

All this was lost on Erika, a curvaceous, petite blonde girl from England who stood about 5'4" in heels, and saw the world through the prettiest turquoise eyes ever seen in Ördögház. Despite her appearance, though, it was considered a health hazard to hit on her, whereas harassing her was considered suicide. This mostly owed to the fact that she was a vampire with superhuman strength, the rest that she knew enough basic fight moves to efficiently defend herself in case some ignorant crackdope started making advances on her.

She busied herself peering through the ten billion side doors, looking for her friend. She was nearly sixteen; when she was ten she had been selected by Sonja from a children's home for vampires so that she could learn to support herself as a slave. Now she was a full-fledged, skilled slave girl, able to serve as a kitchen maid or lady's attendant.

Erika made a charming picture as she busied herself looking into various doorways. Her golden hair was arranged in a tight knot with a white cap on top; Erika's apron matched this perfectly, contrasting with the dark blue of her tight jeans and Izod shirt. Erika looked quite hot as she tripped up to Grushenka.

"Crap!" Erika exclaimed, nearly falling on the marble floor just as she reached Grushenka's side. She reached out to catch herself on the counter and bumped right up against the cook in the process.

The oval-faced, red-haired cook looked up from the pie she was working on. Her rumpled apron and spattered clothes, usually spotless, told of long tedious hours laboring over unfamiliar dishes; Erika was instantly curious. Grushenka Bódór knew all the frequently used recipes by heart, and hardly ever had to experiment during the afternoon; leaving Erika guessing as to what she could be doing.

Grushenka growled at her irritably. Indeed, she was always irritable. "Why the heck are you looking for Olga? That schutta's never around when I need her!" She brushed a stray strand of red hair from her face and studied her recipe with greater diligence than ever, adding, "Come to think of it, none of you ever are!"

Erika's eyes flared. "Olga's my friend, don't freaking insult her!" she told Grushenka indignantly. "Do you know where she might be? I've looked everywhere – I have something to tell her." A leafy, green bundle tumbled out of Erika's roomy apron pocket; she bent and snatched it up. "Oh, and here's the parsley, I had a heck of a time getting it from that pinhead greenhouse-minder, or whatever the heck you call him."

"Darn it! Be the heck quiet! Geez, you'd think I'd be entitled to a little peace in my own darn kitchen!"

Erika snorted. "One might've thought I was screaming like a lunatic," she said crossly. "What do I work on?"

If Grushenka insisted upon anything, it was absolute and utter silence; mealtimes, when the kitchen was abuzz with serving-girls, drove her up the wall.

Grushenka, who meanwhile had gone back to her recipe, swore at being interrupted yet again. "Daddang it, I'm not the freaking housekeeper! Get the heck out of my kitchen!"

Erika huffed. "I can't ask Amelia because she's asleep," she pointed out.

Grushenka looked as though she was at her wit's end. "Oh, then go help the girls sort stuff. They need to get the nice napkins and china and crap like that out for tonight's dinner and polish the silverware and clean the other china. That oughta keep you busy," she added, with irony.

Erika ran into the storage room. In it, a number of girls and boys – mostly lycan girls – were sorting and inspecting napkins and chinaware, gossiping at ninety miles per hour, talking in questions and punctuating every sentence with the word "like." One of them was busy taking delicately hand-painted china out of one of the oaken storage cabinets; the row of wardrobe-like structures stretched from one end of the room to the other.

On the other side, a different girl was unfolding napkins of red, green, blue, and white, and many others were industriously polishing silverware and chatting. Seated a little way off from the rest was Olga.

Olga was seventeen years old, although age had not bestowed good looks upon her homely countenance. She had mouse-brown hair and a cheerful snub nose, and her whole face was sprinkled with light brown freckles. Her figure was long and awkward, but she carried it with perfect ease, if not grace.

Where good looks were absent, though, a cheery personality remained; Olga was a beautiful girl at heart.

Erika dashed up to her, breathless and panting. "There you are! Where have you been?"

"Right here," Olga replied, not looking up.

"I've been looking all over for you. I looked in the house, I looked around the house, I looked on top of the house, I looked in the house again--"

"I think you need to learn what 'all over' means."

"Anyway, I've just heard the coolest news," and she wriggled in excitement, plumping herself down next to Olga.

"Have you indeed?" said Olga, slightly skeptical; whenever gossip was afoot, Erika was usually the last to hear about it. Her light blue eyes twinkled as she said, "I've got something to tell you, too." Olga held up a china plate. On it was a picture of the Master Chief from Halo 2, brandishing an ignited plasma grenade.

Erika gasped. "Wow! Look at it!" she exclaimed, taking it from Olga and holding it reverently. She looked up. "Are these for tonight's dinner? What's the occasion?"

Olga shook her head. "Oh, these aren't for tonight."

"Then what _are_ they for?" asked Erika, putting the plate down carefully.

Olga wore an inscrutable expression. "Either something – or nothing at all. Why don't you run off until I have my R&R?" Every day the slaves had two hours of free time – usually after dark, to prevent difficulties about their work, but sometimes in the late afternoon. Sonja had introduced this system only with the greatest difficulty; Amelia steadfastly believed that, since the slaves were paid, their time belonged to their employer as well as everything else. Lucian had fiercely disputed that that was the attitude of the slavers during the American Civil War, slightly modified; and Viktor, the fogey, generally disagreed with everyone except for Sonja. But it had, at last, been ironed out, and now the slaves had at least a little time to themselves.

"I actually wanted to tell you something, Olga," Erika said disappointedly, adding hopefully, "besides I am required to assist you."

"Oh, well then, in that case, go ahead and help if you don't have anything else to do," and Olga smiled secretively to herself. "Here, take some napkins and shake them out."

Helping herself to a large stack, Erika began, still rather nettled at Olga's weirdo smile. "You'll never guess what I just found out." She tossed her head airily, hoping to provoke Olga's curiosity.

"David Beckham is coming for a visit," said Olga, not even looking up.

Erika shook her head. "Nope, guess again."

"You're pregnant with Lucian's baby."

"Eeww, no!"

"Then what?"

"Not until you tell me what the heck is going on. The stupid greenhouse greenass is taking every pain with his freakin' roses – he won't even let me breathe on them – and Grushenka is baking a mystery pie, something she never does until freaking baking day, and everyone is acting all cagey and cryptic, including you! What the heck is going on?"

For the first time, Olga looked apologetic. "I am not authorized to divulge that information at this time. Lucian requested it. Sure, I will," she reassured Erika. "Just wait until I'm done with this job."

"Oh, well, okay," Erika mumbled, dejected. "Just don't forget, okay? I'm dying to know."

"I agree with the first two words of that last sentence," said Olga. Then she remembered Erika's earlier words. "So, what is it you found out?" she asked.

"Amelia hired a new slave boy," she replied airily. "I think he's a human."

Olga gaped – a rare sight with one so assured of herself. "Really? She usually takes _centuries_ to hire someone! It's only been four dang days since she killed that other one!"

"Actually, it was Sonja who hired him," said Erika, hurrying to explain; she was elated at actually receiving Olga's full and complete attention. Not that Olga ignored her; rather, Olga paid some attention, but not at the expense of her work. "Amelia was against it – heck, she's against everything that she doesn't think of – but Sonja insisted, so now Sonja is getting him oriented – you know how she likes to do all that kind of stuff herself. I listened when the guy arrived at the front door," she added, confidentially.

Olga grinned and shot Erika a mischievous glance. "Like you did when Nicolae Ačimovič came?" She was referring to the time when the son of Milenko Ačimovič had visited Sonja. He was a total sleazebag; Erika had taken the initiative to go and blab to Lucian. A bloody fight had taken place in the lounge that night.

Erika giggled. "Crap, yeah. How could I forget him and his spiky crimson hair?"

Olga sobered somewhat, but her eyes still sparkled with merriment. "That news about the new slave boy'll be something to tell Leyba. She won't be the first with the gossip this time, the spiteful schutta!" She shook her napkins vigorously and a cloud of dust. Olga leaped to an entirely different subject. "Is he hot?"

"Who, Leyba?" asked Erika with another giggle. "Frick, no!"

Olga gave her a shove. "No, of freaking course not! I'm talking about the new guy! Who the heck else would I mean?"

Erika tossed her head in mock-offense. "Well, you should have said so in the first place."

Olga pursed her lips. "Sue me. Anyway, is he hot?"

"Nope," said Erika emphatically. "Sorry to ruin your day," she added, with a hint of mischief.

"Well, what the heck does he look like then?" Olga asked, turning back to her work. "You wouldn't have me believe that he's an absolute Gene Simmons!"

"No, and I wouldn't have you believe that he's an absolute Lorenz Macaro, either," returned Erika; she threw several napkins into the air and caught them again, creating a veritable thunderhead of dust.

Olga coughed and spluttered. "Of course not. Lorenz Macaro is probably the hottest guy on the face of the earth," she declared.

Erika grinned. "I heard that Zsúszá Dzsudzsák spontaneously combusted when she saw him."

Olga scoffed at the rumor. "That's bullcrap. She probably just died and observed that he was hot."

Erika commenced stacking up the napkins. "Dang, he's hot. I know I'd spontaneously combust if he asked me out," and she paused, hand on her heart, eyelids fluttering madly.

Olga giggled at the picture Erika made, then said, "You've never even seen him!"

"Heck yes I have!" said Erika. "He comes to see Sonja almost constantly, and I always let him in. You're never even around when he shows up, so I'm probably going to be the expert on looks here."

Olga dismissed all this and leaned toward her friend, dropping her voice to an undertone. "Erika, you know how all the girls are saying that Sonja is in love with Lorenz Macaro?" she asked.

"Oh, heck yeah, that's common knowledge," replied Erika. That particular bit of news had been present for several years.

"Well, it's wrong," announced Olga, still in an undertone.

"Oh, yeah… what—wait—wrong?" asked Erika, looking rather crestfallen.

"Right."

"Right?"

"No, wrong!"

"Wrong?"

"Right."

"How is that possible? She's had a killer crush on him ever since she came here."

"True, but she has the hots for someone else—" Olga stopped as a young lycan boy ran up. Trix, the son of one of the stablemen, was only twelve years old, and usually was happy to carry messages around the mansion.

"Lesbian or Lillypad or whatever the heck her name is wants you," he said to Erika. "Needs help with the china." He ran off again.

Olga couldn't repress a snicker. "Make her run around the room screaming bloody murder!" she said to Erika, with amusement. "And tell me about it when you get back."

"Butbutbutbutbutbut—" Erika protested, unwilling to halt their conversation.

"I'll tell you later," hissed Olga. "Just not now."

"Beh," Erika muttered, unwilling to provoke her friend. She crossed the room and found the female lycanthrope who was carefully lifting china out of the storage cabinet. This was Leyba. She held all of the younger slaves, most of the older ones, and even some of the hybrids in contempt; she was possessed of a wicked tongue and snakelike, narrow eyes that, incessantly filled with hate, transformed her into a deadly misanthropic enemy. Leyba hated not only the human race, but also all lycanthropes – her own species, all vampires and any hybrids. She hated them because they didn't fear her. She hated them because they didn't respect her and treat her like the queen of the universe. _She hated all sentient life on the planet because Lucian refused to have sex with her!!_

Leyba had been resentful of Erika ever since the latter had arrived at the mansion; though Leyba had been at Ördögház for a longer time, her foul disposition had kept her from being promoted to anything besides lowly serf. But Erika, with her cheery ways and quick learning abilities, quickly became a favorite and soon began to serve as a kitchen maid – a place of high status, considering Grushenka's discriminating tastes. Erika also frequently carried messages from visitors to the residents. The lesser skilled slaves – Leyba, for one – were kept for work that didn't require interaction with the residents.

"Hey, Leyba," Erika addressed her, casually, beginning to take the china out.

"Hello, Erika," Leyba answered coldly, continuing to work. Erika didn't deserve her full attention. She deserved the most painful death a sentient being can know. "How are things going with Grushenka? I hear she's a total minefield today. I'm darn glad I'm not a freaking scullery maid like you," she added, in a malevolent tone.

Erika couldn't resist a quip. "A total minefield, eh? Well, look who's talking. Besides, to each her own. I rather like being a kitchen girl," she answered.

Leyba's smile made Erika feel like tearing out the lycan's skull and beating her to death with it. "Oh?" Leyba asked airily. "That's a funny fancy. Why the heck are you glad of that?"

Erika suppressed a triumphant smile; Leyba had taken a gamble with her question, and Erika meant to follow through. "It's really quite simple," she said, coolly. "If I wasn't a kitchen girl, then I'd have to work with you, animal. And believe me, Grushenka is Sonja Dumak compared to you."

If Leyba was annoyed, she did a good job of hiding it; her only reaction was tearing around the room screaming bloody murder.

Now Erika fought the urge to tear out Leyba's skull and beat her to death with it, and searched for a frustrating question. "Did Amelia increase your wages when you asked her?"

"My dear Erika, I never ask anyone for anything. I demand everything from everyone. I am better than everyone else so therefore I am not required to make petty requests," answered Leyba carelessly, as if it didn't matter; however, Erika knew Leyba well enough to tell that she was enraged at Amelia. That was easy, because she was always enraged at everyone.

"Leyba," ventured Erika. Her curiosity was getting the better of her. "Have you heard what's about to transpire?"

Leyba was impassive. "Yeah," she responded, not looking up while she spoke. "Have you?"

"No," said Erika, reading this as a hopeful sign and taking the plunge. "I was hoping you could tell me."

Now Leyba looked Erika full in the face; her cold, baleful green eyes bored into her face. But the next instant Leyba was working again. "I have neither the years required nor the desire to indulge you," she snarled. "I wouldn't tell you even if I could."

Erika almost scoffed. "Why's that?"

"Baby vampires are trivial and thus not privileged to be enlightened."

"DADDANG IT, YOU FREAKING SCHUTTA!" Erika screamed furiously. "I am SICK and TIRED of your DADDANGED VULGARITY! If I'm an insignificant scullery maid, then you're a FILTHY, MANGY, MOTH-EATEN FLEA CONDO! At least this insignificant scullery maid has the decency to treat people like people!"

Leyba's victorious air disappeared like light when somebody turned out the lights. "You _freaking whore_!" Her voice was an outraged, guttural growl, quite different from her normal haughty manner. "You can forget about hearing so much as a WORD about the party NOW!"

"A_HA_!" cried Erika gleefully, amused at Leyba's slip. "So it's a party, is it? Spill more," she demanded.

But Leyba pursed her lips, maintaining a cold silence that reeked of her hatred.

Just then, a human girl named Cecilia approached. "Hey, Leyba," she began.

Leyba whirled upon the unfortunate girl. "Get the frick on with it! Can't you ever say anything other than 'Hey, Leyba?'" She struck Cecilia across the cheek, again and again, backhanding her ferociously; shy, unconsciously attractive Cecilia always elicited the worst of Leyba's animal rages.

Cecilia flinched and backed away to a safe distance. "Olga says the frag grenade plates won't do. Lucian told her he prefers the assault rifle ones."

"Does he?" said Leyba pleasantly, but her eyes were full of hate. Like always. "I wonder the frick why. You can see that I've already removed the ENTIRE SET OF FRAG PLATES!"

Cecilia drew back cautiously. Dealing with Leyba was as dangerous as opening a can of nitro-glycerin with a jackhammer. "Oh, Leyba, don't shoot the messenger. I don't make the orders here!"

Leyba sneered. "I should say you don't," she growled. "You're nothing but a mere human, the lowest of the low! 'You don't make the orders'! Hah! The mere thought of it is laughable."

Erika thought it was high time someone intervened. "I didn't notice Cecilia laughing," she retorted. "Come to think of it, neither am I. Maybe something went wrong. Need I also bring to mind that YOU don't make the orders either!"

Leyba turned her baleful gaze to Erika. "You stay the frick out of this," she rumbled. "It's none of your daddang business."

"It sure as heck is if someone gets attacked," retorted Erika.

Leyba smirked. "Attack her? She's lucky I'm in such a DADDANG GOOD MOOD!" She dropped her voice, ignoring Cecilia. "You… _slut_," she seethed, an even more dangerous edge to her tone now. "I guess it's just too much to ask that you keep your hate and your vulgarity and your crap to yourself. You must spread it to others wherever you go. Well, I've had enough of you and all your bullcrap." Her voice rose. "I promise you, Erika, when the time comes, I shall _truly_ enjoy killing you. I will drink your blood and eat your entrails and incinerate your bones. Erika, I'm going to destroy your life and eat your soul. And I can't. Wait. To do it." Giving Erika one last malevolent glare, she swept away, leaving a vapor trail.

Erika called after her. "Ah, go ahead and leave. Nobody likes you anyway."

"Don't pay attention to her," said Cecilia. "She's a little upset right now."

"Ceci, she's _always_ "upset." She hates everyone on the planet for no reason," said Erika, astonished at Cecilia's light treatment of Leyba's violent, antisocial behavior. "No, it's okay, Ceci. I'm not mad at you, or anything."

"Oh, good," said Cecilia, with obvious relief.

Erika leaned toward the other girl confidingly. "Listen, Ceci, I'm going to give you a bit of advice. Don't let Leyba walk all over you like that. I'm not chewing you out, but if you let her see that you fear her, she'll lord it over you and treat you like a serf. I know – I've been there myself."

"Aren't we slaves already?" ventured Cecilia.

Erika half-snorted, impatient. "Not to her. She's no higher like the rest of us, remember. Throw that in her face the next time she tries to play the torture master with you."

"I guess you're right," said Cecilia, painfully shy. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't my friend."

Erika grinned wickedly. "Don't mention it. Anything to drive Leyba up the wall." She started to turn away.

"Oh, Erika!" Cecilia exclaimed, grabbing at Erika's sleeve. "I almost forgot – I have a question for you. Have you seen Lord Viktor lately?" At her friend's headshake, Cecilia rushed on. "Well, Pierce says that he moons the bugs in the garden and Jázmin says that he sometimes walks around during the dead hours of night. I want to know if that's true. You know how people gossip sometimes."

Erika pondered. "Well, I've seen him in the garden but his pants were up the whole time. Rigel's brother, Nathaniel – the undergardener – was showing me where he planned to plant the dandelions. We saw Lord Viktor in the east corner. Hardly anybody ever goes there – just in that little corner surrounded by the hedge." She leaned closer to Cecilia. "But never mind about Lord Viktor. Have _you_ heard what the heck is going on with Lucian and the Zurg Room and all the Halo stuff?"

"No, Geordi. I have not. Have you?" Cecilia sounded like she was talking through a plugged nose.

"No I have not. It is most unusual," said Erika hurriedly, knowing that Cecilia was telling the truth and bugging her would do no good – even though Erika was an expert at bugging the heck out of people for information. "Well, have you heard about Lucian leaving for the United States to play professional football?"

"Yeah!" said Cecilia, relaxing at the change of subject. "I hear he's going to be playing for a club called Real Salt Lake. He's going to leave in about a month. At first I wondered why he was going so darn early – the American League seasons typically don't start until the end of springtime, which is really weird. But I found out that he's traveling there early so he can do a bit of sightseeing – not just in the US, either. I was talking to Mason – you know, Lucian's valet – and he said—"

Erika stared. "You were talking to _Mason_?"

Cecilia looked away nervously. "I kind of saw him on the balcony that overlooks the library," she said.

Erika was suspicious. "The _library_ balcony?" she asked incredulously. "What the heck were you doing _there_?"

"I, uh, had to get something for Amelia." She glanced at Erika, and, her skeptical expression, protested, "Since when is it a crime to go up on the library balcony?"

Erika was still incredulous, but decided to let the matter drop. "Keep telling me about Lucian."

A not-so-hidden relief showed in Cecilia's face. "Well, I heard that he'll make a short trip to Mexico and possibly the Caribbean before pre-season training begins. Is that cool or what?"

"Of course. We'll all miss him, but I, for one, am glad he's got the chance to play for an elite club like Real Salt Lake," Erika said brightly. "Are you sure you can't tell me what's going on?" she added hopefully.

"I already said no," replied Cecilia. "The only thing I _do_ know is that it's probably going to happen on Halo Day – and it has something to do with Miss Sonja. We're only doing these things because Lucian expressly requested it."

Erika sighed. "Beh. Oh well, if you don't know, you don't. I wish I could stay and chat, but I need to get back to work with Grushenka. So I'll see you round."


	4. In Which Lorenz Macaro Comes

**Chapter 4 – In Which Lorenz Macaro Comes**

Sonja led the new slave, Tomáš, up the stairs to his room.

"How old are you, Tomáš?" she inquired.

"Fifteen," he replied, gazing around with wonder at his surroundings. They reached the top of the staircase and turned down the hall toward the slave's quarters, their feet making no sound on the soft rug. "This is a darn fancy mansion you got here."

"Yeah, it's been in Lucian's family for generations," said Sonja, glancing around.

"Who's Lucian?" Tomáš wanted to know, walking backwards as he stared at his surroundings.

"Lucian is inexplicably related to Lord Viktor," said Sonja, rather absently.

"You his sister?"

Sonja was startled from her reverie. "What? Oh, no. I'm just a friend of the dysfunctional family."

Tomáš's grayish-brown eyes looked rather wise, but his next question was, "Why do _you_ live here?"

"Viktor invited me," said Sonja, returning to her brisk pace. "Of course, it's proper for you to call him Lord Viktor."

This seemed to touch a hidden nerve. "Why? Does he have delusions of godhood or something?"

Sonja was rather taken aback by the unexpectedness of his reaction. "Of course," she said, careful to agree, "and Viktor has every intention to make it so. He's an incredibly overly-sensitive old fossil, and this is one of his peculiarities," she explained.

"Peculiarities, my ass!"

Sonja had never done quite so much explaining to a potential slave before. "Just be sure to remember."

"Whatever." Then, jumping to another subject. "I dunno how I'm ever going to find my way around this freakin' place."

Sonja told him reassuringly, "Don't worry, we're almost there. See, it's this door, right next to the small staircase from the kitchen. Well, it's not exactly from the kitchen, but from the hallway down there that connects with – oh, don't worry. It's not nearly as complicated as it sounds." She turned the handle and went in; Tomáš followed.

He stared at the room, his gray-brown eyes growing wide. "Whoa! Now _this_ is what I'm talkin' about!" he exclaimed.

Sonja was relieved. "Good, I hoped you would like it. You'll be sharing this room with two other guys. One is your age and the other is seventeen," she informed him.

"YAY!" yelled Tomáš, on the verge of going insane. Then he remembered in time that he was with his employer, and accordingly checked himself.

Sonja shushed him. "Now listen to me. Lord Viktor has an annoying lady living with him. She'll have to be addressed as Lady Amelia. She can be a rotten schutta if you're not respectful. Of course, she's a rotten schutta if you ARE respectful, but don't worry about being discharged. Only I can do that, since I hired you and she didn't."

"Good," mumbled Tomáš. "She sounds like she belongs in a sanitarium for the mentally deranged. If I were disemboweled, then my family would be in one heck of a mess."

Sonja sobered. "Yeah. I'm happy to be of service to them." She looked at her watch. "Wow, I've taken a grand total of twenty minutes," she exclaimed. "I'll have to go see about your uniform. You can go report to Amelia after – oh, no, she's asleep. Better wash up and settle in, then go report to Grushenka. She's in the kitchen." She turned to leave.

"Just one question," Tomáš said, half-grinning. "Where IS the kitchen?"

Sonja laughed at herself. "How silly of me! I had forgotten that you don't know your way around. The kitchen is across the counter, out the window, into the bushes, across the highway, and into the harbor!"

* * *

Some hours later, Erika entered the kitchen. "Hey, Grushenka. What kind of pie is that?" Erika caught a glimpse of a cookbook peeking around the bowl in which Grushenka was mixing ingredients. An experiment! How exhilarating! "Whoa! Are you making a pie from a _cookbook_? I thought you'd freaking _memorized_ the pie recipes!"

"Arctic banana," mumbled the cook, stirring vigorously and shoving the book out of sight; she prided herself on never using 'those bloody cookbooks' – after all, she reasoned, a good cook never needed to be told how to do anything. "It's none of your freakin' business whether I'm memorized the dang pie recipes or not. Besides," she muttered to herself, "I'm only trying this out for now. It's up to Lucian to decide whether he wants to wolf it down with Sonja or not."

Erika's mouth dropped open; she was on the verge of another question when a freshly washed Tomáš, outfitted in a neatly pressed uniform, marched in through the double doors. He cleared his throat nervously; Erika was surprised at how much nicer he looked all clean and dressed properly.

"Hey, are you the cook?" he asked Grushenka.

"Of course I'm the cook, daddang it!" Grushenka exploded. "Who the heck are you and what do you want?"

"I'm Tomáš," the surprisingly hot guy explained. "I was told to come here to report for duty."

"Oh!" said Erika, coming forward. "You must be the new slave," she said eagerly, hoping to conceal the fact that she knew all about him.

"Uh, yeah," he snorted. "Heck did you think I was?"

Erika tossed her head. "I just wanted to say that we're glad you've come," she said, rather petulantly. "Maybe you can tell us your story later," she added, relenting.

"Thanks, maybe," answered Tomáš, somewhat wary; past experiences with girls – particularly his ex-girlfriend – had made him more cautious and then some. He turned back to Grushenka. "So… what do you want me to do?"

Grushenka mumbled something in irritation. "Go help move the new furniture into the drawing room. Oh, and uh, get the heck out." And Grushenka turned her full attention back to the pie, muttering under her breath.

Tomáš looked at Erika. "So, uh, where's the drawing room? I just got here a few hours ago."

"Here, I'll show you the way – that is, if Grushenka would be so kind as to spare me," offered Erika, only glad of a chance to escape the kitchen. Tomáš looked a lot more interesting that Grushenka. "Can I show Tomáš to the drawing room, Grushenka?"

Grushenka shrugged. "As long as you hurry up about it."

Erika suddenly had flashbacks of the Halleluja Chorus. "Okay. Tomáš, follow me." They exited the kitchen and made their way down the hall. "See, we go past the slave's staircase and then through this door there's a hallway. This one leads to the Front Hall, where Lord Viktor holds Sonja's music concerts and other events." She gazed up at the high ceiling with its balconies and buttresses, almost hearing and seeing the soaring music and the flashing neon lights, the buzzing concession stands, the spiky and/or dyed hair. The discourse among the music geeks would drift on the air before and after the shows, the cliques of girls giggling and chatting…

"Nice," said Tomáš. "So where's the drawing room?"

Erika returned to the cold, empty hall with an almost-audible bump. "Across the Front Hall." Her voice echoed in the huge room. "See that big door over there? That's it."

"Oh, I see it. Thanks a bunch, Erika!" Tomáš dashed toward the door of the drawing room, happy to flee.

Erika began to wander back towards the kitchen, absorbed in the imaginary concert. Few enough of them had been held since Erika had come; and she had been too young to work at the concession stand then. Erika hoped desperately that the next time she could at least be in the room.

Suddenly the sound of the doorbell was heard ringing – it was a deep, sweet-toned chime. Incredulous, Erika hurried across the great hall and pulled the heavy door with all her might; maybe this was some slave or other, trying to tease her. The door swung open slowly – like all the other bothersome doors in the mansion, Erika thought, irritated.

A young man, slightly older than Lucian, stood on the doorstep. Erika recognized him instantly as Lorenz Macaro, one of the most well-known people in the area. In wealth only Lucian, inexplicably Viktor's heir, excelled him. In looks he was unsurpassed; his coffee brown eyes were large and deep, glimmering under a perfectly formed brow.

Erika found herself nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Are you calling on someone?" she asked politely, easing the door open wider and inviting him inside.

"Sonja Dumak," Lorenz said, stepping in; he had dropped the prefix 'Miss' long ago. He removed his winter cap and handed it to her.

Erika silently accepted his coat and scarf, then quickly put them on a wrapstand and ushered him into the lounge. "I'll tell her immediately," she said, in the same polite tone as before.

"Thanks." As she turned to leave, Lorenz added, "Oh, and you don't need to mention my name to her."

"Noted," answered Erika, wondering a bit at this. She quickly hurried off to Sonja's apartment and knocked.

Silence.

She knocked again.

More silence.

"Crap," Erika said to herself, stamping her foot. "Crap, crap, _crap_!" She stamped her foot again with impatience.

"What's all the crap about?" asked a boy named Taylor, poking his head out of another hallway. He was one of Grushenka's sons, and had been a close friend of Erika's since her arrival at the mansion.

"I've got to run all the way back down that huge main staircase to the music room, because Sonja has a visitor and I _have_ to find her. And you know how I _hate_ running up and down those gigantic old stairs!"

Taylor grinned, amused, and brushed a strand of blond hair out of his eyes. "You don't need to, though. Just take the spiral staircase – in the back of the house, remember?" He started off in the other direction.

"Oh, of course," exclaimed Erika, heartily annoyed with herself for bugging Taylor with her own sheer stupidity. "How stupid of me. Thanks for reminding me – I'd completely forgotten about those stairs," Erika called.

"It _is_ a big house," Taylor called back.

Erika watched him disappear down the long hall. Surprising, how hot he looked in the vague light. She turned down the side-hall that Taylor had first appeared in and, coming down the spiral staircase, came to the music-room door. It was ajar. Erika lifted her hand to knock, then stopped as Sonja's beautifully mellow – almost Kate Bush-caliber – voice reached her, accompanied by graceful chords on an acoustic guitar and the soft beat of drums. She listened, then pushed the door open a little wider to hear better and peeked inside.

Sonja was seated demurely on a tall stool, strumming on her polished acoustic guitar as the melody wove up and down. This was how she performed, be it in front of five people or five thousand people; calm and reserved. She was singing a rendition of Finger Eleven's _Thousand Mile Wish_ with the ease that comes with many years of practice, and learning English; her melodic voice followed the guitar in graceful strains. Some guy Erika didn't know was doing the drums and Lucian was seated on another stool, singing backup and playing rhythm guitar.

Just as Erika had settled comfortably down, prepared to listen all day, Sonja sang the last refrain and the song ended. Erika was sorely disappointed; the song was one of her favorites, and Sonja played it none too often. But Lorenz was still in the lounge, and Erika knew he wouldn't want to be kept waiting; Erika knocked quickly, before Sonja could begin on another. She pushed it open as Lucian called, "Come in."

"Miss Sonja?" Erika asked, rather hesitantly.

"Yes?" asked Sonja, turning on the stool. She looked slightly disappointed to be interrupted.

"A visitor to see you in the lounge," Erika told her.

"Oh! Thank you, Erika," Sonja said, handing her guitar to Lucian, who put it in its case and tucked it away in a closet. "I'll be right there. Guys, practice is adjourned for now."

"I don't like it, Sonja," Lucian muttered with a Cockney accent. "I think you get way too many visitors who don't bother to mention their names."

Sonja smiled wryly. "Nicolae Ačimovič used to do that a lot, as I recall. But I told him quite explicitly never to come here again." She raised an eyebrow. "Unless he wants a bloody, gucky Halo-esque death, we needn't worry."

Lucian scratched his ear. "Yeah, well… I still don't like it."

She interrupted him. "Stop being such a paranoid delusional furball. It's probably just Lorenz."

"That's what I'm talking about," Lucian mumbled.

"See? There you go again! Knock it off!"

Though he'd known Lorenz for some time and was on reasonably good terms with him, they were rivals in several different areas – including those that Lucian refused to discuss, especially with Sonja.

Lucian sighed and went back to his apartment.

* * *

Erika rushed back to the kitchen as promptly as possible, where she found Grushenka as absorbed as ever in the mystery pie.

"Hey, Grushenka," Erika said brightly. "…Grushenka?"

Grushenka made an unintelligible lycan grunting sound, evidently intended to serve as a reply. As to what it actually meant, Erika hadn't the foggiest idea.

She hesitated a split second – curiosity triumphed over apprehension – then took the plunge and asked the question that had been torturing her. "So, uh, what kind of pie is that?" she asked, her tone still rather bright.

"Cow pie," growled Grushenka, touchily. She squinted at the book; then, as something evidently was not to her satisfaction, mauled the volume to confetti.

"Come on, tell me seriously!" begged Erika, not about to give up her chance so easily. It was rare that Grushenka maintained a good mood through a grand total of one question, and she meant to capitalize on the chance.

But Grushenka was ignoring her, she was concentrating – which, in this particular case, consisted mainly of speaking in tongues. "Blah blah blah blah blah! BLAH! Blah… blahblahblah. Blah? Blaaaaaaaaaaahh! Blahblah," she grumbled. "Erika, will you duck into the pantry and fill up the container?" Grushenka's eyes, glancing up from the cookbook, instantly noted Erika's inattention. "ERIKA!" she thundered.

Erika's hair was blown back. "Oh, sure Grushenka. Right away."

Grushenka grudgingly handed her the key – she didn't enjoy trusting it out of her hands, but had no choice if things were to be done efficiently – and Erika slipped out through the swinging doors and into the hall towards the pantry. Before she could enter it, however, Erika almost ran headlong into two lycanthrope slave boys coming from a storeroom. They were carrying a 52-inch plasma screen TV; Erika didn't recognize it from any of the rooms.

"Dad_dang it_, Erika! Do you _have_ to run everywhere like a little ant? If this thing falls, it's going through the floor!" detonated seventeen-year-old Pierce Bódór, the taller and lankier of the two. He was Grushenka's oldest son, who had a reputation of being a bit of a hothead; Grushenka's quick temper had turned out to be as hereditary as her red hair, of which Pierce also boasted. "Plasma screen TV's make a terrible bang when they fall down, you know."

"Look who's talking! You make "terrible bangs" on a daily basis!" Erika retorted, her own temper rising.

But the next moment she had relented as Pierce drawled, "Aww, come on, Sweetass." (Sweetass was his favorite nickname for her, which bugged the living heck out of Erika. No, scratch that. It was just plain annoying. What bugged the living heck out of her was anytime Pierce would squeeze, slap, "accidentally touch" her bottom, or take the term 'kiss my ass' literally. Of course, whenever he did that, she got to smack him. And that was always wonderful fun.) "It's bloody hard lugging this freakin' TV around"; and the next thing she knew, she had invited them both into the pantry while she fetched the sugar. For some reason Pierce always seemed to be able to worm his way around her objections, no matter how determined she was not to let him. Erika drew the pantry key from her pocket, unlocked the pantry door and entered. The guys eagerly set the TV down in the hall and sauntered in, glad of a chance to rest after carrying the heavy load – not to mention the fact that they hardly ever got a chance to go into the pantry; Grushenka was always prepared to defend the key to the death.

The pantry was dimly lit – there were no windows, only a few small lightbulbs – but it was warm and comfortable. Long rows of five gallon buckets stood in stacks of three along the wall, and shelves full of breads, cakes, pies and whatnot offered a mouthwatering array of temptations.

As they entered, Pierce grabbed a cookie from a large jar and wolfed it down.

"Hey, Pierce," Erika said, shocked, "what the heck are you doing? You're not supposed to—"

Pierce grunted, undisturbed. "Just taking what's mine. Mom said I could have one, then promptly went back on her word."

"Oh well, then…" Erika opened a bucket of sugar and proceeded to scoop the fine white granules with her hands, letting it run through her fingers down into a white mountain.

"You're a dang fine one to talk about stuff you're not supposed to do," said Taylor, Pierce's sensible and less-impulsive brother. "If Mom caught you doing that, she'd have your head." He ran his fingers through his blond hair, leaning against the shelves.

"Your mom? Yeah, right. She couldn't catch me if she tried," declared Erika, letting the sugar fall from her hands and smoothed the surface again.

Pierce was grinning wickedly; his green eyes flashed with mischief. "I'd have to see that," he said, thinking of his clumsy, late 40's mother racing after limber Erika. Then his eyes darkened and glinted dangerously. "Throw Amelia in for good measure and you've got the makings of a fine chase."

Erika sobered; she could tell by his tone that something had happened. "Oh no, not Amelia. What did she do to you today, Pierce?"

Amelia and Pierce had a long-standing rivalry; he had been audaciously impudent to her since childhood, and now that he was working, Pierce conformed none too excellently to Amelia's outrageous regulations.

"Today?" Pierce pretended to be casual, running his fingers through his fiery hair. "Not a heck of a lot – except that I can't have breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner, or supper." Then the mischievous glint returned to his eyes, and he grinned puckishly. "No matter, though," he hissed. "Taylor and I are ordering take-out from Domino's. It's a special air-lift delivery directly to our window so no one will suspect anything."

"Oh no!" Erika was too aghast to giggle. She looked at Taylor, who nodded.

"It's true. I don't know what he did, but it must have been something rich."

Pierce's grin widened. "D'you really want to know what I did?"

"Heck yes!" said Erika and Taylor, simultaneously.

Pierce glanced around the room, but not a soul was in sight. "Well, you both know how Amelia insists on being served by… vampire girls."

Erika protested. "What's wrong vampire girls?"

"Nothing. I _like_ vampire girls; they're hot. But that's beside the point. Anyway, this morning, when Mom was sending up Amelia's second breakfast to her chambers, I got Jázmin to give me the tray. When I got to her chamber, she went off like a car bomb."

"You didn't!" put in Taylor, his blue eyes sparkling with fun.

Pierce looked around again before continuing. "I told her that the girls were sick and tired of serving her – the explosion shook the house!" He choked back his own merriment and added, "There is now tea residing peacefully within the confines of Amelia's hurricane lamp."

"No _effing_ way!" gasped Erika delightedly, while Taylor spluttered with merriment.

Pierce flashed them an innocent look with his green eyes. "That's what happens when you throw tea around. So that meant no dinner." He paused, then continued. "Naturally, I wanted revenge so I went to the garden and got some rocks. Then I managed to find Jázmin – nice, agreeable Jázmin – and got her to bring Lady Amy's second breakfast tray to me."

"And?" said Erika eagerly.

Pierce leaned toward her until he was almost whispering in her ear. "I cut a little hole in the bottom of her scone," he told her, very confidentially. "Then I put the rocks in, one by one. You should have been there when she sank her vampire fangs into it."

Erika shrieked with laughter and clutched at the sugar barrel. "No freaking wonder you don't get breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner or supper! Your jokes are the best, Pierce!"

"That's for darn sure," muttered Taylor, jealous of Pierce's whispers. "If only you'd also told ME exactly what you did."

Erika shoved him, then quickly scooped up some sugar from the barrel. "Oh dry up, you wet blanket. D'you always have to be so darn sober?" She looked back at Pierce. "That was totally awesome," she told him, eyes sparkling.

"Thanky'vurrymutsh," Pierce said like Elvis.

"Wow!" said Erika, surprised. "That was a good imitation. Who taught you that?"

Pierce cocked an eyebrow at her. "I did, of course," he said provokingly. "At any rate, I have to practice for the party." He gave her a broad wink.

"Party? What party?" But Pierce had already dodged out the door. Erika grabbed Taylor's arm. "Taylor, what the heck is he talking about?"

"I have no idea!" And he slipped out of the door after his brother.

Erika sighed as she watched the two guys negotiate down the long hallway and turn right with their burden. What in the bloody heck was going on? Why were the guys carrying a FIFTY-TWO INCH PLASMA SCREEN TELEVISION SET around near the kitchen? Erika supposed it could be some for Lucian, but that still didn't explain why they were carrying it all the way to that back hallway… Erika tensed suddenly. Her blood ran cold. Of course it already _was_ cold, but then the drama would be ruined. The back hallway.

_THE ONE THAT LED TO THE ZURG ROOM_!!


	5. In Which Viktor Is A Big Baby

There was a certain corner room, unobtrusively tucked away in a seldom-used part of the mansion, which was the source of an endless stream of rumors, and sometimes derision, among the slaves – and also the entire world, thanks to US Weekly and other gossip rags that had nothing better to do than print endless brain-eroding articles of pointless speculation. To the residents of Ördögház, it was called the South Wing Lounge; among the slaves, it was termed, more simply, 'the Zurg Room' – an unconventional, if not downright silly, name. No one had ever seen the inside of it. The doors had been welded shut and had remained so since the dawn of time, or possibly earlier.  
The possibilities were discussed in slave's quarters; blabbed in high society, of which Viktor was the central figure; and gossiped wildly about in girl cliques, particularly girls who were hanging out in one's room doing each other's hair and makeup. Yet, for some unknown, but undoubtedly preposterous reason, it was treated as a taboo – almost as if carelessly bringing it up as a fill-in subject would cause the heavens to rain death on an unsuspecting mankind. No one talked about it outside their homes, for fear of execution; and, when parties were being thrown, everyone hid their copies of US Weekly, zipped their lips, and acted as though the Zurg Room didn't exist. It was still there, however. Situated in the farthest corner of the mansion, miles away from any frequently used rooms, it waited… Waited as it had been waiting for three hundred billion gazillion years… to suck the life out of people and turn them into zombies to do its evil bidding! It was that feeling which gave the room, even the mere thought of it, a rather eerie atmosphere. Then again, maybe it was only waiting for someone to play Halo in it. Given its reputation, it would probably get along great with Gravemind.  
Erika was mortally terrified of it, without even knowing why; she shuddered just thinking of it. _Some creepazoid hiding in a cupboard, waiting to ingest the unwary half naked blonde teenaged girl and spit out her bones like watermelon seeds……… _Ptooie.  
The room had been closed up since year zero, also known as Lord Viktor's birth--or so the story went. Nobody knew where the key was, or even if there was a key; though it was generally assumed that Viktor knew, no one dared ask him, for fear of irrational dismemberment and disembowelment. (Such incidents seemed to plague Ördögház.) And while the door was wooden – and therefore susceptible to large, heavy things like, say, a battering ram – no mortal, or immortal had ever succeeded in entering it. Wait a minute, how do you weld WOOD? Wouldn't it just burn up? Indeed, no one had ever tried to enter the room and lived (presumably the room had been waiting to devour them and spit out their bones). It followed, then, that no one knew what was even in the room – whether it was stark and empty, or full of Stephen King-esque spooks like the grandma zombie-ghost from _The Shining_, waiting to wreak havoc and terror on the rest of the mansion after an eternity of seclusion.  
Years ago (the story went) Viktor had shut it up and harshly ordered everyone never to speak of it again until the 1st of Octember. Some of the new slaves who occasionally came and went had often learned the hard way and gotten bled like stuck pigs by Amelia, the sadistic hot babe of a housekeeper.  
All these things passed through Erika's mind in an instant, although it lingered a bit on the gory image of her unwary possible death. She stared down the hall where the guys had disappeared; then, turning, she tore back to the storage room; she had to find Olga immediately. Olga. Where the heck was she –  
Erika burst through the doors and levitated across the room toward her friend.  
Olga, who had been putting away the last of the plates, whipped around at Erika's Matrix-esque approach. "What the heck?"  
"Pierce and Taylor are taking a 52-inch plasma screen TV to the Zurg Room!" Erika gasped. Her eyes were wide with terror, and her breath came in gasps.  
"Uh, so? So what?" asked Olga.

"OLGA!" Erika gaped. "Are you freaking crazy?" She was shocked and surprised that Olga should treat this so lightly. After all, this wasn't just some old storage room – this was the Zurg Room!  
"Of freaking course not," Olga said, still calmly putting the dishes away.  
"Knock it off!" yelled Erika; the initial shock had worn off, now she was cheesed off. Erika sat her ass down on the table with a pronounced thump. Somehow she managed to incorporate a large dose of reproachfulness into that particular thump.  
Olga chose to blithely ignore the thump. "Knock what off?" she asked, infuriatingly. She closed the cabinet door and brushed down her clothes. Maybe she was going a bit too far, but annoying Erika really was wonderful fun. The dumb blonde got annoyed so darn fast that it was hard to keep from laughing. Usually Erika did it purposely to make people laugh. But Olga couldn't tell, this time, whether Erika was doing it for fun or not—  
"STOP BEING SUCH A FREAKING DUMBASS AND TELL ME WHY THE FRICK THEY DID IT!!!" Erika's piercing shriek left no doubt as to whether or not she was being annoyed for fun.  
"Why didn't you say so before?" asked Olga, mildly shocked. "Come on, let's go outside for a minute. No one'll miss us, and nobody else will be out there in that cold."  
"Wait," said Erika hurriedly, not expecting such immediate compliance; Olga had hardly ever stopped her work for something as trivial as a question. "I have to give this to Grushenka. Wait for me in the mudroom," and Erika levitated into the kitchen, dumped the container of sugar on the counter disregarding Grushenka's animal screeches and bolted for the mudroom, wrestling her boots onto her feet and squirming into her coat. Olga followed slowly and deliberately, smoothing down her clothes yet again and plucking at the lint on her white cap. Erika hovered with impatience; she'd had enough of Olga's stalling for one day.  
"Come on, Olga!" Erika urged. She held the door open – letting in a stream of hypothermia-inducing air – and gestured impatiently.  
"Okay, all right!" laughed Olga, giving in. FINALLY.

* * *

Viktor Žewłakow, the self-proclaimed king of Ördögház, strode ponderously down the hall. His age was around 959, but his light gray – almost white – hair conveyed a much older impression. Lucian – who knew his inexplicable relative's age perfectly well – couldn't keep himself from thinking of Viktor as past 34,587,234,593,583,450, if not 54,385,395,432,785,431.  
Viktor's face, even by itself, was engaging, if not as handsome as it had been in his prime; it was easy to tell, even for a stranger who was blind, that in his prime he would have been one totally hot guy. But time had blurred the fine structure of his face. The atmosphere that clung to him was the same as the Zurg Room's – foreboding and dark, almost sinister. Wait, forget "almost"—DEFINITELY sinister. Not to mention crabby.  
Viktor's brow darkened, something his brow had a talent for. He had seen the two lycan boys by the Zurg Room, messing about with a 52-inch plasma screen TV and even trying to get in – rattling the doorknob and throwing their weight against the door. In the end, of course, they had left the TV by the door, but that did nothing to quench Viktor's thirst for blood. For punishment! For…VENGEANCE!! To screw around near the Zurg Room was heresy of the most heinous degree; all the slaves knew it, and he meant to get to the bottom of these blasphemous occurences.  
Reaching his destination, Viktor stopped. Without pausing to ponder, he battered away at the door.  
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANGBANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG! **BANG**!!!!!  
The muffled sounds of David Caruso saying something incredibly obvious about an unsolvable crime, and dramatic music served as the only reply. Lucian was ignoring him. Viktor was not about to tolerate any of that.  
"LUCIAN!" bellowed the old man. "Ow! Darn arthritis!"  
Now some unknown guy was saying something, talking to some guy called 'Grissom.' Wait a minute. Grissom? How could he be watching two TV shows at the same time?  
"OPEN THIS DOOR, LUCIAN!" Judging from the sound alone, Viktor's mouth must have been open three feet wide.  
Something about a … fire?  
"LUCIAN, YOU HAVE TWO SECONDS TO GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE BEFORE I PUT IT IN A HOLE!" No, more like four feet.  
Whatever was on TV, it went to a commercial break and Lucian calmly answered the door. Viktor had only a brief time to think that the way Lucian opened the door was annoying as heck before his inexplicable heir had finished bowing sardonically.  
"Yes, Viktor?" Lucian answered calmly. His words were polite, but his tone was… insolent. Sardonic, even.  
"Just what in the heck do you think you're doing?" Viktor's face was a luscious shade of violet with anger. Or should that be vioLENT?  
Lucian sighed. How the heck did Viktor find out? For that matter, why did he give a crap if Viktor knew or not? He had been intending to tell his inexplicable relative all along. He felt himself tense as he faced the possibility of being refused. Lucian had no intention of being refused.  
Realizing the length of the pause that had lingered between them, Lucian zeroed in on something to say that would further his previous question. "What the heck are you talking about?"  
Viktor's blue eyes turned red. "You freaking know what I'm talking about! The slaves are flying around with unusual and totally gratuitous jobs!" Viktor paused. "And I caught two lycans trying to force their way into the South Wing Lounge!" His face took on an expressionless, but no less dangerous, demeanor. "On YOUR ORDERS!"  
There was a long silence, then Viktor added, "I was under the impression that they were attempting to arrange a special event of some kind." His voice dripped scorn.  
"Yeah, that's right," Lucian answered. "Actually, I had told the slaves to prepare the South Wing L—"  
"wwwwwwwWWWHAT!" Viktor had never overcome his tendency toward unwarranted violence. As a child, he had always been passionate, impulsive and – most importantly – selfish, and his dumbass parents had indulged him constantly – neither punishing his animal tantrums nor trying to prevent them.  
"Viktor—" began Lucian, trying to salvage what remained of Viktor's train of rational thought.  
Viktor boorishly cut him off. "Somehow I don't seem to remember giving permission for use of the Z--the South Wing Lounge! How, pray tell, do you plan on entering it?" His voice was laden with sneering derision. "Care to expand further upon your… um... plans?"  
The mocking words sounded almost comic, but Lucian knew his inexplicable relative and recognized their true value: dangerous. He chose, naturally, to completely disregard it.  
"I was HOPING to play Halo 3 with Sonja in there before I leave for the United States. I was HOPING you'd start thinking rationally for a change and wouldn't mind a whole lot," he said, "I see I was wrong."  
Viktor exploded in a rage. "YOU ABSOLUTELY CAN NOT USE THAT ROOM WITHOUT MY EXPRESS PERMISSION! THAT ROOM HAS A VERY SPECIAL VALUE TO ME AND IT WOULD KILL ME WERE YOU TO PLAY HALO 3 IN IT WITH SOME TROLLOP!"  
"See? There you go again. Exploding in people's faces without giving it a moment's thought," Lucian said.  
Viktor ignored him; his jaw tightened with an animal-like frenzy. "I AM THE KING OF ÖRDÖGHÁZ! YOU MAY NEVER EVER USE THAT ROOM! CAN YOU HEAR ME? NEVER, EVER!" Viktor screeched, not even bothering to hide his fury, not that he had been doing such a spectacular job of it before.  
Now Lucian was angry. But he didn't stoop to Viktor's level. He never raised his voice or flailed his arms. He simply took a step closer to his inexplicable relative and looked him squarely in the eye, his own eyes blazing.  
"Get out," he hissed.  
Viktor, still catching his breath, stood there, unmoving.  
"I said get the heck out," Lucian rumbled, dangerously.  
Whirling around, Viktor stormed down the hall to his chamber and slammed the door shut with a crash.  
Lucian shook his head in disgust at Viktor's childish conduct. "What a baby," he growled, and turned his TV show back on. "Ooh, the part when Sgt. O'Reilly goes home and demolishes every clock in sight!"

* * *

Sonja entered the lounge. "Lorenz!" Her face lit up.  
Lorenz rose from his seat and embraced her as an old friend. Not as a lover. "Sonja. Long time no see." His eyes searched her curiously.  
She laughed, oblivious to his scrutiny. "I had a feeling it was you, when Erika didn't give your name. So you're back for good, then?" Sonja sounded hopeful.  
He shook his head. "Ah, no, I was pretty satisfied with the military school that I visited, and I'll be enlisting soon."  
Sonja's face fell. "That's too bad. It'll get pretty lonely here, with you and Lucian gone."  
Lorenz's eyes went to her face again. "Yeah, I forgot about that," he said, half under his breath.  
Sonja glanced up. "What are you talking about? Isn't it natural that I'd feel pretty isolated, with none of my friends living nearby? Zita Dzsudzsák's still in Jamaica, you know."  
"You have your e-mail buddy," Lorenz pointed out.  
She looked at him in surprise. "My e-mail—oh, you remember everything, Lorenz. I must have told you about him years ago – why haven't you forgotten it?"  
"I never forget," said Lorenz playfully. "Has Lucian?"  
Sonja looked away. "Uh, why do you ask?" she asked.  
Lorenz folded his gloved hands and looked at her; she could feel his eyes boring into her even with her back turned. "I wondered," he said, "whether Lucian was happy about it."  
She turned and faced him frankly. "No, of course he's not. He gets mad when I so much as look at another guy, and he'll kill any other guy who so much as looks at me. I told him when I first came here, and his vendetta has endured ever since." She examined her nails. "Except you, of course. Maybe he's too stupid to notice you."  
"Then he doesn't know who your e-mail buddy is?"  
Sonja looked at him as though he came from another planet. "Of course he – wait." She paused and considered. "I can't remember whether I told him exactly, that I exchange e-mails and instant messages with a Michael Corvin, but I was sure—"  
"Sonja." He interrupted her; a sly smile was stealing over his face. "I just might have a surprise for you. Is it okay if I come back this evening?"  
"Sure, yeah, go right ahead," said Sonja, staring at him.  
He rose quickly from his chair. "I'll have to say goodbye, then." Lorenz shook her hand and left the room.  
Lorenz retrieved his coat and hat and was about to leave when Lucian appeared next to him. "Lorenz, wait a minute," Lucian said abruptly, not even bothering to greet him.  
"Sure, Lucian," Lorenz responded, putting his hat into his coat pocket. "What do you want?"  
"That's what I'm asking you," said Lucian. He motioned toward the lounge. "What the heck did you want with her?"  
Lorenz sighed loudly; a soap opera. This guy was pathetic competition. Did he have one single creative bone in his body? "I didn't 'want' _anything_ 'with' her, if that's what you mean. I was visiting an old friend. Is there a law against it that I don't know about?"  
"Tell me what you were talking about," growled Lucian. "Or I'll kill you right here."  
Lorenz stepped back, unwilling to provoke. "Okay, fine, if you want to go all first-person-shooter about it," he said. "I wanted to ask her whether I could bring her a gift."  
Lucian eyed him dourly; the past days of friendship, which they had enjoyed together, now thrown away for the mere sake of a girl. "You listen to me, Macaro," he said harshly. "I'm not sure I like you waltzing in here with gifts for Sonja."  
"Sonja appreciates it, and you're way out of line," said Lorenz quietly. He put his hat on and turned to leave.  
Lucian grabbed his arm and dug his fingers in, infuriated by the last comment. "I will not tolerate it, Lorenz!"  
The other's patience was about to snap. "This isn't about you, Lucian. It's about Sonja. You have no right to forbid me. Now, I appreciate the fact that Sonja lives here. I also appreciate the fact that you and I were once quite close. It's a shame you decided to throw it all away in trade for selfishness and greed." His eyes were ablaze. "And if you so much as think about ordering me around, I will not cooperate for one picosecond. Is that CLEAR?"  
By now Lucian's eyes were burning with open hatred. "Transparently," he said, with tones laden with disdain. "Be it formally understood that our 'friendship,' if you would call it that, is now terminated."  
Lorenz sighed and ran his fingers through his dark hair. "Lucian, if you'd just wait a few hours I could explain—"  
Lucian gazed wrathfully at him, fury boiling over behind his eyes. "If you're not going to oblige me, then I see no reason why I should please you."  
Now Lorenz's temper snapped. "LUCIAN! You're being a freaking hypocrite!" he retorted. "One time you told me that you'd sooner wear silver chainmail than become a stuck up, self-centered billionaire geezer like Viktor! But it looks like you're well on your way to becoming one!"  
Lucian snarled and viciously backhanded his friend. "IT'S NONE OF YOUR FREAKING BUSINESS WHAT I'M BECOMING! GET OUT! GET THE _FRICK_ OUT!" he roared, as Lorenz turned away again. "If you _ever_ come here again… I will _kill you_ where you stand!"  
Lorenz collected himself as Lucian borderlined insanity. "If you killed me," said Lorenz, calmly. "You would regret it and pay for it the rest of your life. Sonja, as well as everyone you hold dear, would come to hate you. Actually they would hate you immediately. And then your only 'company' would be inmates on death row. You would be given the electric chair and no one would care. No one would shed one tear over the passing of a spoiled lycan cur who cared about nothing but himself." He disappeared through the door.  
Lucian stood for a moment, stiff with anger. He knew Lorenz was right. Then he whipped around and disappeared into the library.


	6. In Which the Seamstress Is Melodramatic

**Chapter 6**

In Which the Seamstress Acts All Melodramatic

Erika and Olga dashed through the sparkling white snow toward the icy hedge garden. This garden was enclosed in a rectangular stone wall and was a heck of a labyrinth; the tall, evergreen hedges – from which it got its name – were kept neatly trimmed to serve as the maze's walls.  
"Stop, Erika," panted Olga, sliding to a stop. Turning into a neat alcove, she flopped down on the stone bench residing in one corner. "I think we've gone far enough, don't you? Nobody will be out, anyway and MY ASS IS ABOUT TO FREEZE ITSELF INTO AN ASS-SHAPED POPSICLE."  
"All right," said Erika finally, plopping her ass down next to Olga. "But you have to promise to answer my questions."  
Olga half-sighed at Erika's request. "If I didn't intend to answer, then why the heck do you think I let my now-ice-cubed ass be dragged out here?"  
"Dragged?" demanded Erika. "As I recall is was your idea to come out here to begin with!"  
"Well, it was what you would have said, anyway, even if I hadn't," Olga lied, rubbing a gloved hand across her inexplicably perspired face. "And it'll be your fault if I freeze," she added exasperatedly.  
Erika sat, wriggling with impatience. "We came out here for a reason – tell me! Now!"  
"Sure, fine, whatever," said Olga, yielding. "Lucian is planning a Halo marathon in the Zurg Room before he leaves for Dallas. You know. Video games?"  
"WHAT?" Erika stared delightedly. Then she sobered. "How the bloody heck does he expect to get Viktor to agree?"  
Olga shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he'll tie him down and torture him."  
Erika was growing more confused by the minute. "And why a Halo marathon?" she asked. "That's silly. Why not a farewell block party? And besides, the Zurg Room is way too small to have an LAN party."  
Olga shook her head despairingly. "No, no, Erika, it's not an LAN party. It's a Halo cooperative play marathon. Which means two people play through the entire campaign modes of all three Halo games on the Heroic difficulty level. With the occasional food break."  
"Oh-h," said Erika, comprehending. "But I still don't see why—wait!" She leaped up. "Just who's going to be the other person?"  
Olga's face crinkled into a smile as she sat back down, having regained her composure. "Take a while to guess," she said.  
Erika pretended to ponder this deeply. "I know," she said. "A certain mean vampire chick named Amelia, perhaps?"  
Olga howled with laughter. "She's absolutely the last person on the planet that Lucian would want to play Halo with!"  
"Tell me then," said Erika eagerly.  
"Come on," said Olga, drawing each syllable out with relish, "don't you know of a certain young vampiress…?"  
"Young vampiress?" puzzled Erika – with an amazing quantity of stupidity, thought Olga. "No, I can't say – unless it might be… gee, what was her name? She was here a few years ago, I'm sure, and I think she was Lorenz's cousin. Wasn't it Selene? Yeah. She and Lucian were really good at Assault On—"  
"No, no, no, no, no!" said Olga. "You're all wrong. It's not Selene at all. Nothing like that."  
"Then, who the heck is it?" asked Erika, betraying a slight impatience.  
Olga stalled, hoping Erika would guess on her own. "Come on, Erika. I'm surprised at you. Can't you think of even one…?"  
Sudden comprehension dawned on Erika's face. "You… can't possibly… mean…" She sank down on the bench, weighed down with the sheer thought of it.  
Olga nodded, eyes alight like lit matches, gesturing for Erika to continue.  
"Surely – no, it can't possibly be… Sonja?" Erika asked incredulously. She leaned forward; Olga drew backwards. "Is it Sonja?" she asked breathlessly.  
Olga said, "I wish I could be more courteous, but…… DUH!"  
Erika looked as though she was about to spontaneously combust with the pure bliss of the unexpected. Suddenly she sprang up and tore though the hedged pathways, shrieking, "I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW SONJA PLAYED HALO!"  
Olga sprang up in her turn; this was a reaction unlooked for even in unpredictable Erika. "Erika, shush! They'll hear you!" she shouted after her. "Where are you even going?"  
Erika didn't turn around as she yelled back, "Kitchen!"

"ERIKA! Take off your daddang boots before parading around my freakin' kitchen!" Grushenka howled at Erika as she tromped in, her boots covered in snow.  
"Oh, sorry, Grushenka," Erika apologized, hurriedly yanking her boots off without bothering to untie them. She tossed them unceremoniously in the mudroom. Coming back out, Erika sniffed the air, determined to make a third attempt to solve the pie mystery. "Wow, that smells good! Is that heck of a pie in the oven yet?"  
"As a matter of fact, yes," replied Grushenka, somewhat mollified at Erika's flattery.  
"I don't suppose you can tell me what kind it is," hinted Erika. Maybe it was apple. Apple pie was a rare delicacy, even in the Žewłakow kitchen – but no, that couldn't be right. It didn't smell like apple anyways.  
"Well," said the chef thoughtlessly, busying herself with putting things away, "I suppose there's no harm in you knowing. It's—" she broke off suddenly in dismay.  
"What?" Erika asked anxiously, afraid that Grushenka's reasonable mood had already expired like old milk.  
"Never you mind," Grushenka snapped. "It doesn't concern you anyways! I'm under strict orders to keep this under my hat! Lucian wants nothing to circulate. Nothing!" she told Erika indignantly.  
Yup, it had definitely expired. Seven whole seconds, that's gotta be a new record, Erika thought. "Can I get you anything, Grushenka?" Erika asked out loud.  
"Nope," said Grushenka abruptly. "Just get the heck out."  
Erika's face fell. "Come on, I was just asking. Don't get mad," she entreated.  
Grushenka relented. "Why don't you run along? I won't be needing you for a while."  
"Okay," said Erika. Like a bolt of Because-It's-Dramatic lightning, suddenly she had an idea; though she had always assumed that the mystery of why the Zurg Room was shut up would always remain such, it had just occurred to her that the seamstress might know about it. "Grushenka," she said, "do you know whether the seamtress is off work yet?"  
"How the heck should I know?" Grushenka responded irritably. "Although I suspect she isn't. She's got a lot of work to do, sewing up Sonja's shirt from the time a bunch of screaming fans nearly tore off her clothes." Fans did that kind of thing. "At least she hasn't sunk to tearing them off HERSELF. Yet." Grushenka gave a loud snort of disgust that was mostly put on; she was really quite fond of her employers.  
Erika didn't notice. "Thanks, Grushenka. I'll be back in a bit," she added, and dashed out the kitchen door. She turned down a small side hallway. Slowing down, she peered about the dark corridor. There were several doors on either side, each one leading to a different workroom. Or could you guess? Erika hoped that she could remember which it was – wait. Ah, yes, here it was, right at the end of the corridor. There were more doors in this house than there were muppets on Sesame Street.  
Erika seized the ornate doorknob and turned it with difficulty. The heavy door swung open soundlessly; Erika peered in.  
At first glance, the room looked almost bare; there was a table in one corner, a cabinet, and a footlocker, as well as a chair or two, but the rest was lost in shadows. A single window was set high in the wall; a stream of cold sunlight mingling with silver dust motes filtered through, creating a square beam of light that illuminated a chair.  
In it, a middle-aged woman was seated, bent over a shimmering golden blouse. Her dark hair, bound up on her head, glistened, giving her an almost regal appearance. Slender hands, almost translucent in the frosty light, worked deftly with the delicate fabric.  
"Whoa," Erika sighed involuntarily, stunned by the yeah-right-happenstance of the composition.  
The woman jerked her head up, startled from her contemplation; her face relaxed as she recognized the girl. "Hey, Erika," she said. "What do you want?" Even while she spoke, her hands automatically continued their work; push, pull, push, pull, in and out of the fabric, binding the pieces together into one shimmering sea of golden. Erika dragged her eyes away from the rhythmic movement with an effort; she was met by the seamstress's veil-like blue eyes.  
"I'm not actually here on work," she said, not knowing exactly how to put her purpose into words.  
The seamstress frowned meditatively. "What are you doing here, then?"  
"I, uh, wanted to talk to you, if you don't mind," Erika said slowly, unsure of how to act. She noticed the locket again, fleetingly.  
The seamstress kept sewing. Apparently, it didn't occur to her to use a sewing machine. Erika's respect for her plummeted. "Okay. What do you want to talk about?"  
"Well, I want to know about the Zurg Room," Erika confided, growing slightly bolder and stepping forward a bit. She hung on the edge of the shadow by the door. "I thought you might know – I wasn't sure how long you'd been here, but—"  
The seamstress looked at Erika, with an overdramatic admiring glint in her eye. "You're a lot bolder than the other slaves," she said. "Not a lot of the others come in here, even for work. Yet here you are." She smiled wryly. "There's a crapstorm of rumors circulating around the space alien disguised as a seamstress."  
Erika smiled, almost laughing. "I guess I am kind of bold," she admitted. "Sometimes I wish I weren't, but I do stuff anyway."  
The seamstress was watching her intently. "That's good. Erika, I think I can enlighten you. But first I need you to do me a favor."  
All Erika's apprehension returned with a rush. "Uh… what?"  
"I need you to tell Lucian a story," she said, in a low tone.  
Erika almost burst out laughing. "You mean, like… a bedtime story? What should it be, then? Henry and the Dragon? Curious George Goes to the Hospital?"  
"No, dumbass! I'll tell it to you first. It should answer your questions." Her face was serious. Theatrical. "Erika, you're young. You need to be sure that you're ready to take on this responsibility."  
Impatience surged over Erika like a wave. "Will you stop being so freaking dramatic? It's getting on my nerves! Just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it!"  
"I need your help, Erika." The seamstress's eyes were beseeching. Histrionic. "If you're willing, come to my apartment tonight. I'll be waiting for you."  
"As long as you knock off the theatrics."  
"And be sure to come alone."  
"BEH!"


	7. In Which Amelia Shows Up

**Chapter 7**

In Which Amelia Swaggers Around Being An Insufferable Pig-headed Jerkwad

Up on the second floor, in his large apartment, Lucian sat slumped on his rich, dark red leather couch watching CSI: Miami, angrily. Why the heck was Viktor so freaking insistent? What could possibly be so valuable to him about an old, musty room, and why would playing Halo in it violate his tyrannical wishes?

Hoping to find an answer, Lucian went back in time, before he'd come to Ördögház. He had lived with his mother, Sylvi, and his father, Sandor, in a small, seaside bungalow; Sandor Hadik had been a carpenter, painter, exterminator, computer technician, and general man-of-work. They'd been poor but relatively happy together; Lucian could still remember playing football with his father while Sylvi made foodfood.

Sandor was Viktor's cousin's… brother's…uh son, twice removed; however, it was simpler for everyone to call him 'inexplicable relative,' since Viktor had no nephews, and Sandor's last name was Hadik, not to mention he was a lycanthrope and Viktor was a vampire—AAAGGGGHHH! Sandor's marriage to Sylvi – she was the illegitimate daughter of the town tyrant – had raised the ire of the stuck-up family of know-it-all aristocrat smartasses. Most of them had shunned Lucian's household in disgust; there were no benevolent relatives or fun-loving cousins in Lucian's lifetime, nor did he know where they were now. If any. Still, even without relatives, life for him had been hard, rough, and brutal, but at the same time enjoyable. Ish.

A super-convenient riot. Lucian had never been told exactly what it was about; he had been too young at the time to understand anything but a sense of panic, and pride kept him from asking Viktor now. But the cause didn't matter to him, then or now; all that mattered was the outcome.

Screw that. Lucian fought the urge to transform into wolf-form and tear the whole building down. Even now, he could hear his mother futilely pleading with his father not to go out in a foolhardy, doomed-to-failure attempt to pacify the insurgents. She'd used those very words in her anguished begging: "Sandor, forget about the people now when we're merely oppressed – think of them later, when we all have to pay the price if you fight." Like a buzzing mosquito, Lucian could still hear his idiot daddy respond pridefully, "We must all fight for what's right," sounding again and again in his mind. Lucian, then only twelve, had crouched – fearful and horror-stricken – in a corner as Sandor, proudly and with his head high, strode out the door with much fanfare… and was promptly decapitated, dismembered and cannibalized. It was what Lucian had always imagined stepping into a meat blender would look like.

He and his mother had spent a full night of terror, with systematic bangs on their door and guttural yells and grunts constant in the streets. As it neared morning, the rioters had inexplicably transformed into nightmarish monsters; some had become insectoid horrible flying screeching things with antennae and clicking mandibles, others had torn out their skulls and were bashing in windows or beating people to death with them, a few dozen had grown into shapeless creatures covered with hideous bloating tumors and wriggling mucusy tentacles with flowers on the ends of them, but most were brutish, hairy beasts with apelike heads that boasted crude mohawks and maws full of carnivorous teeth.

From inside their stronghold – Sylvi had barricaded the door with most of their furniture – mother and son could hear a sudden, ominous silence fall as – what sounded like – a giant creature bellow something. The words were unintelligible, but the horde of monsters evidently understood; with a repugnant roar, like an Uruk-hai gargling mud, they swept mercilessly toward the houses. Screams of terror and pain filled the streets as well as the sounds of those screams being cut off by meaty, splattery thuds. There was a hiss and a whoosh of flames as the creatures set fire to the house.

Lucian, terrified, had clung to his mother; wildly, they looked about for a way of escape, but none was open, and the fire surrounded them. Having no alternative, and unwilling to surrender herself – not to mention her son – to the rampaging beasts, Sylvi had taken Lucian down to the basement, where they had hidden. The last thing Lucian remembered from that night was a timber, plunging down onto their heads.

Later, Lucian had awakened in a makeshift hospital; many others like him were laid about in various positions on the floor, some soaked with blood. He'd been informed simply that his parents were dead; one impaled by a falling metal girder, the other was eaten alive; they were able to identify the latter's remains through dental records. There was also crude writing on his bleached skull which read _this gy am Sandoor. Tast gud_.

Even now, Lucian would remember his father, and wonder. Was Sandor dismembered? Had he been cannibalized? An even worse idea had occurred to him; had Sandor killed himself as the monsters feasted on his flesh? The pain of not knowing had tortured him for a long time. Of course, it didn't occur to him to take note of when he SAW Sandor's head get lopped off the instant he stepped out the door…

Dimly, as if recalling a dim memory, Lucian remembered being bundled off to a children's home, where he had stayed for three days until his inexplicable relative had taken him to Budapest, to Ördögház. The mansion had been cold, dark, and huge, with very few slaves; Viktor found little necessity, then, to keep up the entire mansion simply for his own pleasure. Viktor had been far gloomier then; it was only after Sonja had arrived that he started thinking of things and people other than himself.

Sonja, yeah. That was another focal point in Lucian's history. When Lucian first arrived at Ördögház, it was only to stay for three months; then he'd been shipped off to—what, _college_?? But he was only twelve! Ah, trivialities. Anyway, he had made several good friends there. He stayed until his eighteenth birthday; then he came back – with a few of his friends staying at other acquaintances' houses – to Ördögház for a holiday weekend. Finding themselves in need of amusement, they had trooped off to a special music concert, which turned out to be way more diverting than any of them had predicted.

For it was there Lucian had first seen Sonja Dumak. She was one of the featured acts, known simply as Sonja, which was her stage name. Her rendition of Soundgarden's _4__th__ of July_ had struck him, not only for the flawless execution but the feeling with which she played. No one he'd ever gone to see – or heard – touched… no make that _vibrated_ the deep dark depths of his mind as she did with her music. She was certainly a big improvement over the last act, which featured a ridiculously sexy girl singer who was wearing a full body leotard that looked like it had been airbrushed onto bare skin. It was as if someone had finally understood about his father and inexplicable relative, his friends, the mayhem with which he remembered the monster mutiny, and was reaching out to him in full acceptance of it. Which was, of course, ridiculous, because the girl wasn't telepathic.

When he tried to explain this to his "friends," they had laughed it off, telling each other that 'Lucian just needs to get laid,' and daring him to go backstage and talk to her. So he did.

During the long ensuing conversation with the girl, Lucian discovered their similar backgrounds, excluding the fact that she was born a vampire; she too was an orphan, with both parents ripped from her at an even younger age than Lucian had been. Her father, a daring, adventurous sea-captain, had been an only son; she had no other relations save her mother's grandparents, who were in a nursing home. No one knew where Sonja's father had come from, or even if Davy Jones was his real name; some called him 'the big, tentacley guy.'

After her father's ship had been dragged down into the water by big thrashing tentacles, she was taken in by kindly neighbors, the Bogrovs; for her mother, too, had been taken, by disease. For several years, her life was comparatively peaceful; then, suddenly, Ivan Bogrov's source of livelihood was cut off, sending him and his wife to the human equivalent of a pound and leaving Sonja with nothing but the clothes on her back and her mother's treasured guitar. A year went by; Sonja had joined a local band, giving performances at various concert-halls, until finally she had come to Budapest to perform.

From that point on, Lucian's sympathies were fully enlisted; even more so when she told him that she would have to sleep there, in the concert hall. Impulsively, he invited her to Ördögház for the night, resolving to combat Viktor somehow – after all, he wasn't about to stand by and watch the old geezer deny the girl a room to sleep in, not with all those empty apartments in the mansion. She had accepted, rather doubtfully, and Lucian had led her smugly out to his car. His "friends" were thunderstruck, and rather inclined to nudge one another and hiss risqué comments; Lucian shut them up with a growl, whereupon they were inclined to shuffle their feet and sneeze as they piled into the car and drove off.

Lucian had never ceased to be shocked at Viktor's reaction to Sonja. When he brought her into the mansion, complete with backbreaking baggage and guitar-case, he expected Viktor to turn sixty-nine shades of red and detonate like a nuclear warhead, and Viktor seemed prepared to act the part. Until he was introduced to Sonja. Something about her appearance, or voice, or manner, or waistline, or bustline (BEH!) – _something_ – seemed to strike a resonant chord in him. He was never anything less than courteous and – this astounded Lucian even now – cordial to her, and she was always amiable and respectful. The mutual friendliness between the two increased after Sonja voluntarily played her guitar for them, leaving Lucian scratching his head over the whole thing and predicting that it wouldn't last a week.

The end of it was that Sonja came to live with them.

It was only with the greatest difficulty that Viktor and Lucian succeeded in getting Amelia to agree to the scheme; on Amelia's part, at least, existed a deep and festering hostility against the 'pretentious schutta' who had the nerve to barge in uninvited and tell everyone what to do. Her physical appearance and skill with the guitar and her voice did nothing to increase Amelia's feelings. But fortunately, it was not her decision to make, so it was resolved.

Sonja had, knowingly or otherwise, started a revolution – at least concerning Viktor. Almost immediately, new slaves were hired by the truckload: several for the gardens, new ones for car care, and at least ten more for the house; Sonja couldn't stand uncleanness. Parties were thrown way more often than before; Viktor was anxious for Sonja to be accepted into society and – even more amazing – Viktor himself began to socialize. He even ENJOYED IT! Instead of Lucian merely visiting home, as previously planned, he never returned to college; instead, Viktor allowed him to remain home and finish studying in a personal apartment.

Yep, Sonja sure caused a revolution; and even now, she remained Viktor's closest friend. He preferred her company over anyone else's, and he treasured her approval, almost like a fifteen-year-old high school freshman with a crush. Weird.

Lucian's eyes suddenly went wide with horror. REALLY weird. Earlier, Viktor had referred to Sonja as a trollop. If Sonja, the central figure of his life, counted as a trollop, then there must have been someone else!!!!!!! S_omeone else, valued even more than Sonja!!!!_

Menacing revelatory music cue:_ DUUNNNNNNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHHHH!_

He jumped as a knock sounded on the door. "_What_!" he snapped, cheesed off at being interrupted.

The door opened, and Viktor looked in. "Lucian… I… um…" He stopped, unsure of how to continue, and remained in the doorway.

"If you're here to blow up in my face like a two-year-old, don't bother and don't come back until you grow up," said Lucian.

Viktor still hesitated. "I'm sorry about how I reacted earlier. I was… overzealous."

Lucian stared, unbelieving. This was a new tack for Viktor; he never EVER owned up to his tantrums, much less apologized for them. Little did he know of the visit and resulting explanation that had come from Sonja. "Well, I'm sure you must have had your reasons. I sure as heck had no intention of upsetting you."

Viktor looked uncomfortable to say the least. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said abruptly.

"I understand," said Lucian, without understanding in the least.

Viktor cleared his throat. "I, uh, happened to be in the library earlier, and I heard you and Lorenz talking. Is there a problem between you two?"

Now Lucian was uncomfortable. "We had a slight disagreement," he answered defensively.

Viktor looked displeased. "What about?" he asked.

Lucian's face tightened. "Nothing that concerns you vampires."

Viktor chuckled grimly. "Lucian, knock it off. I heard every word." He moved closer to his inexplicable relative. "You were being extremely unfair to Lorenz, Lucian. He has every right to visit Sonja when he wants – furthermore, I am far from permitting you to execute him if he comes here again. If Sonja wants to see him, then he has a right to be here."

Lucian struggled to contain the animal rage that was boiling inside him. "And what if his intentions are less than savory?" he demanded.

To his surprise – for the first time in centuries – Viktor smiled. A bit grimly, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Lorenz Macaro is a very gracious and respectable young man."

"And supposing he has designs in coming in here?" Lucian retorted, his jealousy completely out of control.

"Then he'll come to me."

Wrathful, Lucian started to slam the door. Viktor stopped it with his hand. "And, Lucian," he added, "I think you should talk with Sonja before becoming too hasty. After all, this is her decision. So get that through your thick skull, dumbass."

Lucian slammed the door and threw himself back into his chair, raging silently.

* * *

"What is the meaning of this?" Amelia demanded, making a big entrance into the kitchen just as Grushenka retrieved her pie from the oven. "I did _not_ authorize you to bake a pie. I specifically instructed you to make the lemon meringue. Yet here you are, baking a – what the heck is that?" she peered confusedly at the dish in question, "Some kind of pie." Amelia finished, regaining her toxic mood. "Why?" When Grushenka didn't answer immediately, Amelia repeated herself, this time screeching. "_WHY?!_"

"If you'll give me more than a nanosecond to respond, Lucian said – " Grushenka tried to explain but…

"Frick Lucian. Explain immediately." No one new to Ördögház could guess Amelia's true nature simply by looking at her stunning features. Her lustrous black hair bound tightly on her gracefully sculpted head, she looked out at the world through imperious green eyes. A strapless satin gown exposed slender white shoulders, while a jeweled silver pendant – her most treasured possession – rested on the flawless ivory expanse of her bosom; she constantly wore fancy dresses, further adding to her visual appeal and splendor. Amelia was an astonishingly beautiful woman, but in appearance only. Her venomous personality, however, did not match her supermodelesque façade. At the best of times, she was merely an outsider to the residents of Ördögház. At the worst of times – which was most of the time – she enjoyed punishing other people as a means of releasing her anger and frustration at the rest of the world.

"Answer me!" she repeated, dangerously.

"Lucian's orders, Lady."

"That is better. Explain _him_."

Grushenka's fright gave way to confusion. "What do you mean?"

Amelia hissed dangerously, baring her fangs. "Tell me why Lucian told you to, you wretched animal!"

"Oh." Grushenka sighed in relief. "Well, I'm no psychic, and Lucian didn't tell me a whole lot, so you'd have to go ask him."

Amelia's emerald eyes turned red and Grushenka stepped back in fright as the vampiress emitted a shriek like an enraged panther, still baring her fangs. "_VERY WELL!_" she thundered. "I shall speak with _him_, seeing that you have lost all ability to explain anything." Amelia was almost beside herself with fury, but she hadn't lost her temper yet. She stormed out of the room. Behind, in the kitchen, Grushenka gave a profound sigh of relief.

Amelia marched grimly up the front staircase, determined to take this farce up with Lucian. He had his way entirely too much; a spoiled lycan prince. Viktor got mellower every day, but not she. No, at least _she_ had some will power to stay cruel. And if either of them thought that she was going to stand by and let her authority be insulted, well, they had something else coming. Glancing upwards, Amelia sighted Sonja, on her way down. Ah, good. Someone to vent her wrath upon.

The woman and the girl drew level, and Amelia eyed Sonja coldly. "Where have _you_ been?" Amelia demanded, frostily.

"Pole dancing," Sonja said dryly, without missing a beat. "Great ab workout. And guys throw you money, too. You really ought to try it sometime."

Amelia's eyes were now so red they almost glowed. "The slut confesses," she spat.

"Gotcha!" It didn't take any close scrutiny to notice the deliberateness of the act, which betrayed a rising temper within Sonja. "I was merely talking with dear Viktor."

"Talking with dear Viktor," repeated Amelia, slowly, with relish; a perfect opening. "About what?"

Sonja's smile was enchanting as she looked Amelia in the red eye. "What I talk about with Viktor is irrelevant to you, Lady Amelia. And _none_ of your business," she replied sweetly, with a trace of warning hidden in her tones. "I happen to be one of his closest friends, as you well know."

"Yes, so you say." The lady's voice was sarcastic and insinuating.

"No. So _he_ says." And Sonja continued down the stairs, her back silently imparting a sense of triumph.

Amelia was struck dumb with indignation for an instant, then she snarled at her own vulnerability and glided up the rest of the staircase. Finally reaching Lucian's apartment, she rapped sharply on it thrice. The sounds of a loud exasperated groan and heavy stomping approached the door. It flew open – whenever Lucian was in a bad mood he would answer the door thus, which inflamed Amelia to no end. It did no great lengths toward improving her temper.

"Oh, hey, Amelia," greeted Lucian, thinly disguising his disgust.

"I am here for nothing but a straight answer from you, lycan," said Amelia harshly, seating herself on his leather couch.

Lucian remained standing, eyeing her coldly. He was in no mood for another one of Amelia's intrusive visits, daddang her. "Do you, now? What do you want to know?"

Amelia cursed silently at the unconscious repetition of her own words to Sonja. "I want to known just what the heck is going on around here!" she snapped, collecting herself.

Lucian's whole mind was swearing most profusely inwardly. Did he not make himself _abundantly_ clear that he wanted the whole matter to be kept QUIET? If they had only obeyed him, Amelia wouldn't be barging into his apartment and demanding an explanation. "Many things are 'going on around here,' Lady Amelia, to what things in particular are you referring?" he asked, with an annoyed note to his voice.

Amelia glared. "What I want to know is why you instructed the lycan wench of a cook to bake a pie. That is _absolutely unacceptable_! You know full well she is only allowed to do it on baking day, once a week, unless she has specific orders."

"She _did_ have specific orders." Lucian's eyebrows were raised. He knew it wasn't the pie itself that had made Amelia's blood boil; it was the encroachment upon her command that was the main problem.

"_Yours_!" Amelia hissed. "_You_ have _no_ authority here! Your orders mean _nothing_!"

"Yes… they _do_," he said, forcing his voice to stay even; he wasn't about to raise his voice yet, even though he felt like ripping Amelia's fancy dress to shreds and bleeding her dry. "If they didn't, why the heck do you suppose Viktor lets me have charge of the mansion while he's not available?"

Amelia sneered. "I always said you were far too rash to have charge of a mansion, animal that you are!"

Lucian's jaw was set and grim; Amelia's scathing comments had gotten under his skin. "I am _not_ an animal! I'm twenty-two years old and civilized as they come! You call _that_ an animal?"

"You're a lycan! If it were up to me, you'd never come out of your room without a handler. And a leash!" she flung at him.

A clever expression stole over Lucian's face as he said, "Then I am grateful. That it is _not_ up to you. At least I don't go around attacking people on a whim. Which is more than I can say for you." And he sat back on his heels to watch the effect of this barb; knowing Amelia's lethal temper, he calculated that it would be a magnificent one.

"YOU RAT _BASTARD_!" she screeched, apparently aware of the fact that his parents had not yet learned to control their animal-like impulses around the time he was conceived. "I will not speak to you! I'll talk to Viktor! If he's indulging you I will put a stop to it, I guarantee it!"

"I highly doubt that you'll find him indulging me," remarked Lucian, with an undertone of sarcasm. He opened the door to show that the interview was over.

"Now get your ass off my couch and _get the heck out of my apartment_!" he snarled.

With a freezing look, Amelia swept out of his apartment and slammed the door behind her.

Lucian watched her leave. Then he settled his long figure back down onto the couch, lately so popular with Amelia's ivory ass. He swore.

"This is just freakin' great," he muttered to himself. "Even though I'm just as resolute as Viktor, now he has someone else on his side. I _am_ going to play Halo, though, before I leave for Dallas, and it _must_ be perfect." He slammed his fist down. "It _will_ be perfect." His voice sounded relentlessly in his ears, echoing off the floor and ceiling. Perfect, perfect, _perfect_.


	8. In Which A Chain Reaction Begins

**Chapter 8**

In Which A Chain Reaction Begins Which Will Bring About Ragnarok

Down the hall in Viktor's apartment, Amelia and Viktor were conversing heatedly. Viktor, seated in a velvet easy chair that reclined and vibrated, was listening to Amelia's endless monologue with a dark expression. It was difficult to tell whether he was angry about Lucian's cheek or Amelia's lethal attitude. Though he had learned to put up with Amelia's customary frosty conduct, he still drew the line at her violent outbursts that she still had occasionally.

Amelia, seated upright in a chair similar to Viktor's, was grilling the latter with demands to penalize Lucian swiftly and harshly. Viktor's 52-inch plasma screen TV, turned to a news channel, was on mute.

"Listen to me when I'm talking to you, Viktor!" Amelia snapped at him. Her jaw jutted out and she glared at him with venomous green eyes.

"I AM listening to you, darn it. Can't you freaking see that?" he responded irritably. "I'm listening quite attentively, although Lucian's shortcomings are not, by any means, new to me."

"What do you mean?" asked Amelia suspiciously. She felt her anger towards Lucian momentarily disappear as she observed Viktor's fury with interest.

Viktor gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his chair's armrests. "I found out that he was planning – entirely without my permission – to use the South Wing Lounge to play Halo with Sonja."

Amelia narrowed her jade eyes and tapped her fingers, one at a time, on her chair arm. She wondered why he was so angry – what was so appalling about Lucian wanting to play Halo with Sonja? Aside from the fact that Viktor might possibly object to any romantic crap between the two. But that was hardly plausible; Viktor was not the type to interfere in a romantic relationship. Amelia gritted her teeth. No, it had to be something else.

Suddenly, she thought of the girl. Could she have anything to do with it? Amelia strained her memory, determined to remember all she could about the incident. That girl – she had been from Yugoslavia. Or had she just been visiting? Amelia simply couldn't remember. It all had been centuries ago, but no matter – a very good thing that she had murdered the artful young gold-digger before Viktor's infatuation had turned into anything serious. Or had it? At the time, there were rumors that he was keeping a wife in the attic – maybe they were true.

Briefly, Amelia wondered what the girl had been like. Probably a shameless, fortune-hunting bimbo with enough innocent looks to fool Viktor. Viktor, in her estimation, had always been a total klutz in matters that dealt with women. Yes, it had definitely been a very good thing that she had killed the girl when she did.

Amelia was jolted back to the present when Viktor banged his chair arm which sent up a cloud of dust.

"So – what are you going to do about it?" she queried, hoping to goad him into killing Lucian.

"Deny him the use of the room, of course!" Viktor responded angrily. He rose from his chair and started pacing the room.

"Yes, I realize that," Amelia replied impatiently. "What I mean is, aren't you going to inflict a secondary sentence?"

He stopped pacing and stared at her as if all her clothes had disappeared. "Like what?"

The remaining fragments of Amelia's patience – she never had much to begin with – were fast being swept away. "What do you mean 'like what'? Aren't you going to do something else, deprive him of some privilege, or something, to show him once and for all that I – I mean – _you_ are the master?"

Viktor was caught off-guard. "Uh… what do you suggest?"

"Well…" Amelia tapped her fingers together slowly. "What does he value most?"

"He values his freedom of course. Any real Hungarian would." Pride was evident in Viktor's voice. "And he values Sonja's friendship and his chance to play football in the United States – he values a crapload of things, Amelia!" His voice was aggravated. "What would you have me do, send him to the freaking _pound_ like a _dog_?"

"He is a lycan, Viktor," Amelia said scornfully. "I suppose you're too soft to deprive that mangy, wretched animal of anything."

Viktor glared at her icily and abruptly resumed his pacing. "That is a lie. He deserves to be punished and I'm willing to do it!"

Amelia gave an inward, self-congratulatory smile, and said carefully, "Well, how about separating him from Sonja? Surely that would be punishment worthy of such heresy."

Viktor looked at her, askance. "How in five hecks would we manage that?"

"Simple," said Amelia, satisfied with herself. "You can kill Sonja." She couldn't realistically expect Viktor to agree to this; still, any suggestion was better than none.

Viktor fixed a blazing gaze on her, sickened with revulsion. "_You_… _ANIMAL_!!!" he roared. Amelia backed away cautiously.

"I would NEVER do that even if we could get away with it. That is COMPLETELY unacceptable and UTTERLY UNJUST to BOTH of them, ESPECIALLY Sonja! HOW DARE YOU!"

Amelia scowled at the failure of her brilliant idea. "The next thing you'll be saying is that you'd _die_ to oblige him!"

If Viktor was irritated before, he was enraged now. "I just might _kill you_ to oblige him if you don't keep a civil tongue in your head. Now if you can't make a helpful suggestion, get out," he ordered.

Amelia's eyes blazed crimson. "If you'll stay quiet you'd hear my suggestions. As I was about to say, you_ could_ deny him his freedom."

Viktor looked skeptical and continued pacing, though with more deliberation that previously evident. "How do you suggest we do that?"

"Tell him," said Amelia craftily, encouraged by her success so far, "that you will not allow him to call on other people for a century or so. Impound his car, lock up the garage and so on. He'll be forced to spend his days in the mansion. Under my hand."

"That might be worth thinking about," conceded Viktor.

"Never end a sentence with a preposition."

"SHUT UP!"

* * *

Erika dashed down the hall, knowing that if she didn't return to the kitchen soon, Grushenka would be most displeased. She ran past the empty storage room and rounded a corner.

"Crap!" Erika exclaimed suddenly, coming face to face with Pierce.

Pierce didn't bother to hide his annoyance. "Erika, do you _have_ to tear around the mansion like that? This is the second time I've been rammed into by you!"

"Watch where you're freaking going and you won't _get_ rammed into," retorted Erika. "Where are you going, anyway? I thought you were moving the furniture in the drawing room."

Pierce waved a careless hand, momentary annoyance forgotten. "Oh, that's done with. Right now I'm supposed to be getting the small octagonal rug, except I can't find it anywhere and no one knows where it is."

"That rug? Oh. That's with Daria, I think," Erika offered. Daria was the middle-aged Russian woman who ran the mansion's laundromat. She was a kind soul, given to hoarding loot (I.e., yummy stuff) for the children whenever they might drop in.

"It is?" Pierce looked pleased. "Well, bring it to the Zurg Room once you've gotten it." He disappeared down another hallway.

"Darn it, Pierce!" hissed Erika furiously, pursuing him. "Who the heck do you think I am? A freaking serf?"

Pierce was wearing his ever-present grin. "What's wrong with _you_?"

Erika glowered. "You know perfectly well that I'm not around just to serve you!" she retorted hotly. "If you want that freaking rug, get it yourself!"

"Aw, come on, Sweetass," drawled Pierce in his most insinuating tone. "Can't you just do me one little favor?"

Erika wavered, relenting ever-so-slightly. "Well—"

"Just this once? Pleez?" She could almost hear the charming-scapegrace grin on his face.

"Okay, fine!" Erika said, ungraciously. "But ONLY this once!"

Pierce chuckled softly and disappeared.

Erika bounded down the stairs to the laundromat and pushed the door open energetically. "Daria?"

The Russian woman started and turned from her ironing. She smiled broadly. "Erika! How are you today?"

"Mm, can't complain," Erika grinned; the older woman's cheerful mood was infectious. "Do you have the small red octagonal rug? Pierce wants it for – uh, stuff," she finished awkwardly, eliciting a grin from Daria.

Daria chuckled. "I sure do! As a matter of fact, I'm just finishing ironing it. All the better for us, since we can talk and stuff."

"Why not?" Erika settled down on a small stool. As the woman continued her work, Erika gazed around at her surroundings.

"By the way," began Daria, "have you heard about what's going on?"

Erika grinned from ear to ear at hearing the phrase that she had been using so extensively actually coming from someone else. Talking with Daria was always enjoyable. Daria knew all the gossip, and was never unprepared to offer her opinion on it. "Yeah! Olga told me all about it. What do you think of it?"

Daria laughed out loud, placing the hot iron on the fabric with a sizzle. No need to ponder this question; she'd been asked it a million times already. "I think it's a great idea."

"Idea?" Erika was piqued. "What do you mean?"

Daria raised an eyebrow. "Haven't you noticed? Lucian has a special reason, believe me. This is more than just a Halo marathon. It's an opportunity."

"An opportunity to do what, daddang it? Be on WCG Ultimate Gamer, for Cash' sakes?" Erika was getting completely sick and tired of all these hints and intimations. But more than that the woman would not divulge; she was wearing her inscrutable expression again, which meant Erika had to wait. She did so, rather sulkily.

"Try to hurry up!" Erika exclaimed at long last. "I need to get the rug down to the Zurg Room."

"I'm going as fast as I can," said Daria, remaining supremely unhurried. She slid her iron deliberately across the red rug (WTBFH!!!!!!! WHO THE HECK IRONS _RUGS_???!); no one could say "haste and waste" about her. Finally she unplugged the iron and began to fold up the rug. "By the way, Erika," she began.

Erika looked at her quickly. "What?"

A small grin was hovering around Daria's mouth. "I don't know how accurate this is, but last time Rigel was downtown, he heard something rather interesting about Lorenz Macaro."

Erika was instantly alert. "Did he now?"

Daria deliberately made the final fold and tucked the rug, smelling beautifully of clean carpet, into Erika's arms. "They say," she said under her breath, "that he's bringing a 'gift' for her from Székesféhervár." Daria winked.

"What kind of gift?" asked Erika eagerly. "What do you mean?"

Daria gave her a little shove. "Never mind, I have work to do. Now shoo."

_"I AM COMPLETELY SICK AND TIRED OF ALL THESE BROTHERFREAKING HINTS AND INTIMATIONS! SOONER OR LATER I AM GOING TO GET A DADDANG STRAIGHT ANSWER FROM SOMEONE!"_


	9. In Which Pierce Meets His Demise

**Chapter 9**

In Which Pierce Meets His Untimely Demise

"Just give me the usual, Eusébia," said Sonja.

"Okay," answered Eusébia, her young attendant.

Sonja was seated in a reclined hair-salon chair thingy in front of a vanity. I've never actually been in a hair salon so I don't know exactly what the customers station themselves on. Around her, soft sunlight (sunlight?!!) danced off the wall which was littered with posters of soft rock bands from like Coldplay, Keane, The Coral, Snow Patrol, Depeche Mode and such. The chrome steel doors, graced with the things that look like ship steering wheels that you have to turn in order to open the ten ton doors, added a certain sense of security to the dressing room. _Clocks_ by Coldplay floated throughout the room, emanating from a stereo in the corner.

"Go ahead and use the pearl combs to fasten it," Sonja instructed gently. Eusébia was new at this; only recently had she come to Ördögház from Lisbon, Portugal to be trained as a maid for Sonja. The latter was careful was careful to bolster her confidence as much as possible, well aware of Eusébia's delicate personality.

"The _pearl_ combs?" Eusébia gasped in horror. "Why the heck – uh, yes. Of course, Sonja," Eusébia replied hurriedly, remembering herself. But still she kept on wondering to herself. Even she, a new arrival and shy at that, knew about Lucian's gifts; on Sonja's first birthday with them, he had given her a beautiful set of pearl jewelry. Sonja prized them highly; the only time she had ever worn them had been at Viktor's blood orgy, which had been given in her honor.

Peering into a large oval mirror, Sonja smoothed her golden hair back carefully; it fell in soft waves to the floor. (Her hair is THAT long????)

"Why don't you go ahead and plug the curling iron in now and get it heating up?" Sonja suggested tactfully. "Then it would be ready when you're finished with the coil, and we wouldn't waste any time."

Color rose in Eusébia's cheeks; she hated to inconvenience Sonja, whom she held almost in awe. "Oh of course! How silly of me. I'll do that now." And Eusébia hurried to get the iron from the bedroom and plugged it into a wall outlet. "What in heck would make Sonja wear the pearl combs?" she asked herself. "Either she's expecting some buddy, or she and Lucian are going to tie a few knots, or she's trying to impress Lucian into proposing before he goes away. But then, she would never stoop that low," Eusébia told herself scornfully. "That's for Dominique Ačimova." And Eusébia hurried back to where Sonja waited patiently.

Selecting an ornate, silver-backed hairbrush, Eusébia began to guide it through Sonja's hair. When it was shimmering like actual gold, she placed the brush on a vanity and expertly seized the hair in one hand, leaving a wisp of hair on either side to be curled. Giving the whole thing several twists, she gently coiled the resulting rope on the nape of Sonja's neck. Reverently choosing the glowing, smooth pearl combs from the vanity, she fastened the coil in place with them. No one could say that Eusébia didn't possess a natural skill for hairdressing.

"How's that?" Eusébia asked her anxiously.

"Great! You always make the best coils," Sonja worshipped her. "Now go get the curling-iron – you take it from there."

"You got it." She turned away from Sonja and went back into the main chamber. Sonja let her eyes travel over her vanity. There were sparkling cut glass bottles filled with perfumes she didn't even know existed, glistening combs set with jewels that shouldn't exist, and an elaborate dresser set of a hairbrush, hand miror, and comb. Sonja sighed in delight. Most of this she wouldn't have dreamed of buying – she was hardly the type of person to be extravagant, especially buying things for herself – but Viktor had insisted on buying it, vanity and all, for her previous birthday on November 7th when she had turned twenty-four. She drew open the drawer slowly and removed a long, lightish-red velvet jewelry box. Setting in on the vanity, she opened it carefully and drew out a strand of breathtaking pearls; taking the clasp, which was set with six tiny, delicate diamonds, she fastened it around her neck. Eusébia, who was returning with the hot iron, nearly dropped it on her foot as she stared at the pearls.

"Oh my freaking gosh!" she gasped, amazed that she had even taken them out.

Sonja whirled around, alarmed. "What is it? What is it?"

Eusébia nearly bit her tongue off as she hurried toward Sonja. "Oh, sorry. The iron is ready," she stammered, confused. "Are you expecting someone?" she ventured.

Sonja relaxed and smiled, having learned quickly that Eusébia needed constant reassurance. "Maybe. I just wanted to wear this for a change – it seems overkill to leave it lying in its drawer for centuries."

Eusébia nodded, hoping in vain that she looked wise and unconcerned. "Okay, I'm ready now – for the curls, I mean."

"Hurl away," responded Sonja.

With the utmost obedience Eusébia barfed all over the floor. Sonja gave her a look that was both bemused and taken aback.

"What was that?"

Eusébia couldn't understand what Sonja's problem was. "Just what you told me."

"Did I say 'hurl away'? I meant CURL away. Sorry."

"Ohhhh."

Eusébia gingerly wound the first wisp of hair around the iron, well aware of the delicacy required. If the iron were too hot, it would singe – maybe even burn off – the hair; too cold, and she would have to start over again.

Suddenly a knock sounded on Sonja's apartment door. Eusébia jumped, she had to juggle the iron for a few seconds but caught it. By the wrong end.

"OOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! OW! OW! OW! OW!!!!!!"

"Who is it?" Sonja called, without turning her head.

"It's Erika."

"Come in."

Erika hurried in; it was her job to let everyone know about meals. Viktor had not yet discovered the ingenuity of intercoms. Old-timer. Erika stopped short upon seeing Sonja; Erika, in all three-and-a-half years that she'd been at Ördögház, had never seen Sonja wear the pearls. "Oh my _gosh_!" she exploded impulsively. "Sonja, you look absolutely _gorgeous_!"

Sonja blushed and, without quite realizing it, reached up to finger her pearls. "You're sweet, Erika. Now, what was it that you wanted to tell me?" she prompted.

"Oh yeah, afternoon tea is almost ready."

"Okay, I'll be right down," Sonja answered. "Eusébia, are you done yet? I think it's been long enough."

Eusébia almost jumped. "Oh! Uh, yeah." Unwinding the hair from the iron, she let it drop – bouncing slightly – in the form of a perfect curl. She then set a new iron on the other side.

"Uh, okay, Erika. Thanks. You can go now," said Sonja, slightly embarrassed, as she became aware of Erika's admiring stare.

"What? Oh, yeah. See ya," and Erika withdrew, wondering about the pearl necklace and combs. Maybe Sonja was expecting Lorenz Macaro again. If she was, it was a safe bet that Lucian would be furious – twice in one day!

After serving cookies at afternoon tea, Erika pulled on her snow-boots again and dashed outside. The frosty air shimmered with her breath as she ran through the snow, scattering wet and glistening particles from her heels.

On the south side, a big wisteria vine rambled over the wall of the mansion; over the centuries – it was as old as the house itself – it had worked its way into every crack and fissure until it became part of the house structure and was as firm and steady as any ladder. Amelia had wanted to have it chopped down for a long time, but Viktor didn't agree; though it did look slightly overgrown. He insisted that it be left standing.

The lower parts were best for climbing; as the oldest, they were the thickest and most woody. Farther up, they were thinner and more brittle, but each time she tried to go higher.

During the summer, she'd go up to oogle hot guys. But during the winter, Erika simply enjoyed climbing for its own sake.

She slid to a halt, panting and grasping the huge, knobby old vine for support. "Hello hello," she said to it, running her hand over the rough, friendly surface. "Where shall we go today?"

The vine loomed up the side of the house, silent. It couldn't talk. "Okay," she said. "Maybe today I'll get high enough to find that window." She started to swing herself up.

"Trees don't actually talk, you know." Pierce appeared around the corner.

Erika instantly released her hold on the vine and whirled around, disappointed at being interrupted. "Pierce! What the heck are you doing here? And it's a vine, not a tree," she added.

Pierce shrugged. "Vine, whatever," he said. "You forgot, Sweetass, I had my R&R moved to the same time as yours."

"The heck be darned," said Erika, even more annoyed. "Go away. Go watch Raw."

"Erika, do you even know why it's called '_Monday **Night**_ Raw'?" Pierce asked.

Erika half-snorted. "I'm having immense difficulty caring."

"Because it's only on Mondays and today is Tuesday. There's nothing good on TV and so I'm bored," said Pierce, grasping the vine and hauling himself up. "This is why I came out here."

Erika was alarmed; the old wisteria was bending and creaking dreadfully under Pierce's sheer weight. "Pierce, knock it off!" she yelled, angered. "Stop being a showoff! If you don't get down from there—"

By this time he was almost six feet up. "You're wasting your breath," he called back, and went higher.

"She means it, Pierce!" yelled another voice. Taylor appeared from behind a bush. "Get your ass down here right now!"

"_Nein_!" Pierce yelled back. "What the heck you gonna do about it, anyways?"

"Not sure, but you'll be in deep crap if Viktor hears about this!"

"Frick Viktor," said Pierce, and went even higher.

Taylor turned away, muttering, "One of these days, I am GOING to have the last word."

Erika looked at Taylor. "Taylor, what were you doing – spying on us?"

Taylor flushed; the wind ruffled his blond hair. "Um, no. I—"

They were both interrupted by a sickening crack from the wisteria. The ancient vine had finally buckled under the strain; one of its boughs broke directly underneath Pierce's foot, sending him plummeting, cursing, to the ground.


	10. In Which Someone Comes To Ordoghaz

**Chapter 10**

In Which Someone Comes to Ördögház

"PIERCE!" screamed Erika, levitating to his side. "Pierce, what the heck have you done to yourself!" she cried, sobbing for breath.

Taylor reached them a second later. "Pierce, if you've killed yourself—I'll freaking kill you," he muttered, ripping off his brother's glove and feeling for a pulse. Taylor's faced turned ashen.

"Oh my gosh," whispered Erika, her eyes locked onto Taylor's face. "No."

"No pulse." The statement was dull and brutal. Only Taylor's face betrayed his feelings; it held a sickened, numbed expression.

"Nowaitaminute, YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY! PIERCE IS DEAD! NO ONE WILL EVER SQUEEZE MY ARSE AGAIN!"

Then they were both jolted by a familiar voice. "Tuuuckerrr! Tuuuuuuuckerrrrrrrrr!"

Erika stumbled backwards, shocked out of her wits. Taylor stared until his eyes overloaded.

"WHAT THE BLOODY FREAKING HECK?!"

"I am the ghost of Church! I have come back with a waaaaaarning!"

Pierce sat up and grabbed his glove, glaring at Taylor. "Next time, don't take off my freaking glove. You can always feel for a heartbeat."

Taylor's face flooded with rage and relief. "Daddang you, Pierce! What the heck kind of lousy joke is that!"

"A darn good one, I'd say." Pierce grinned, looking at Erika. Her face was cold and expressionless. "You gonna freaking climb or not?" he asked, smile fading slightly.

"Frick you!" she burst out. "I cannot BELIEVE you would do something like that!" She was shouting. Or could you guess.

Pierce was concerned; he scrambled up from his position. "Come on, Erika," he said, "it was just a bit of fun."

"I'm not laughing!" She turned and stomped off through the snow.

Pierce made as if to follow her. "Erika—"

Taylor grabbed his arm. "She's right," he growled. "If you don't freakin' watch it—"

Pierce shook him off. "Erika, wait!" he called, running after her. Reaching her, he grabbed her shoulders and swung her around.

Erika's eyes were empty; she remained coldly indifferent.

For maybe the first time in his life, Pierce was uncomfortable. "Erika, I'm sorry," he mumbled ashamedly. "I didn't mean to scare you like that."

"Well, Pierce, you _did_!" Erika returned icily, jerking away from him.

"Hey, I said I was sorry." When her eyes remained cast down, he tweaked her breast. "Shall I tell everyone that you fainted, Sweetass?"

"Pierce, _darn_ it!" She shoved him away, but her eyes twinkled a little despite her glare.

A slow grin stole over Pierce's face. "What's wrong? Afraid to climb a vine in front of me? You're wearing pants, for Cash's sake!"

Erika tossed her head and grinned back challengingly; in that instant, all was forgiven. "Oh, you just watch! But if you squeeze my arse like you did last time, I'm going to pummel you into next year." Darting over to the vine, she swung herself up with practiced ease. Erika was much smaller than the two boys, and gained altitude quickly. Making her way up with surprising agility, despite her hampering clothing, Erika quickly reached the second storey and began to climb sideways rather than up. Reaching one of the windows, Erika peered in. No sign of the Zurg Room.

"I'm going to climb sideways a bit further," Erika explained to the boys. "There's a certain window that I want to reach."

"That's fine," was Taylor's reply. "Just make darn sure you don't get hurt."

"No worries," Erika shouted back. Making her way along the side of the house, she passed window after window. None of them belonged to the Zurg Room. In fact, one room was _so_ not the Zurg Room, she wanted immediately to forget she ever looked in it. But, darn it, it stuck in her head. She worked her way further toward the corner of the house, peeking in again and again. But the Zurg Room was at the very corner; the window would be further on.

Taylor's voice drifted up to her, sounding more distant than ever. "Erikaaaaaaaaaaaa! Hurry the heck up, it's almost the end of our break!"

Erika gritten her teeth in frustration as she yelled back, "I'm not leaving yet!"

"Well get that ass moving!" Pierce returned, puffing wildly with his hands. "You know, you don't have to do this! I was joking, for gosh sake!"

Erika half-grinned, letting her glance sweep about her. "_I_ wasn't!" she shouted back. Two more windows till the corner of the house. One of them _had_ to be into the Zurg Room! But which one?

There was a sudden, startling whoosh of air as something big flew past her, causing Erika to almost lose her grip. She gripped the vines, not moving, until she was certain the pterodactyl – or whatever the heck it was – had gone.

Impatiently brushing her cumbersome cloak away from her arms, Erika crossed over to a different branch. She peered into the first window. No, the room was too familiar to be the Zurg Room. It _had_ to be the last window! Erika climbed sideways faster than ever.

Reaching it at last, she cupped her hands against the frosty glass and peered in. Her breath made a steamy circle on the glass.

The next instant her face fell. She had forgotten that there wouldn't be any lights on to illuminate the unfamiliar room: It was too darn dark in there to see anything but the bare minimum. She strained her eyes, trying to make out the shape of the room, anything that might identify it. Everything was unfamiliar, and Erika realized that this was probably it. Excitement rose in her.

Suddenly she let out a stifled gasp.

Some…… _thing_ was moving inside the room! It was large, and bulky. Too large – not to mention too broad-shouldered – to be a woman. Maybe it was a Jiralhanae. But no, this person, whoever he was, moved with confidence, as if he knew his way around. A sudden bump, a stifled yelp of anger and a long string of obscenities. He'd stubbed his toe. _Why in the world was he barefoot???_ Okay, maybe he didn't know his way around. Now, as far as Erika could tell, he held his injured foot and was hopping around on one leg, swearing profusely, quietly. Erika fought hard to keep from laughing. The mysterious man bumped into a china cabinet – which fell to the floor with a crash and tinkle-tinkle – and stumbled to the floor. The man went on swearing… swearing…

"Erika!" Taylor's voice jolted her from her trance. "We're going now!"

"I'm coming!" Erika tried to shout softly, so the man in the room wouldn't hear, but she could see him start as her voice reached him through the window. Picking himself up, he grabbed his foot again and hopped out, locking the door behind him.

Suddenly Erika gasped. "What's that!" she yelled, as the sound of a car engine drifted up the road.

"It's a limousine!" yelled Taylor frantically. "Erika, we're going, we can't stay here!"

Looking down, Erika briefly glimpsed the boys' heels as they disappeared around the corner. "Dang," she muttered to herself. "Who is it, this time? Probably that repulsive Nicolae Ačimovič again." She thrust her head around the corner of the house and squinted hard, trying to see if someone was coming up the path. From her present position, any person approaching the front door would be directly facing her – except, of course, they wouldn't be looking up.

So she settled down into a comfortable position and just watched. Her efforts did not go unrewarded; soon she caught sight of what surely must have been the most impressive Cadillac limousine in the world. Even the Ördögház limo wasn't that elaborate; Viktor preferred Ford. Erika half-grinned. That preference didn't apply to his taste for furniture.

Staring at the chrome brass tracery and sparkly black paint that glistened spectacularly in the clouded afternoon sun, Erika wondered – a bit wistfully – whether she would ever have the chance to ride in a car like that. With a sigh, she turned her attention to the two young men who were disembarking – and let out an involuntary gasp.

"Hey, that's Lorenz Macaro!" Erika exclaimed to herself. "What's he doing here again?" Her mind flew to the prediction she had made earlier, and grinned wryly. Yes, Lucian would be most furious to see Lorenz twice in one day. But who was the other sap? "Probably some hopeful boyfriend for Sonja," she told herself scornfully.

Sonja had, in the past several months, received several unsolicited proposals of marriage from various opportunistic guys (to the rage of Lucian and the towering wrath of Viktor), and it was not uncommon for aspiring fortune-hunters to drop by regularly.

Erika was practically certain that if Sonja married somebody, it would either be Lorenz or the Mr. Corvin guy that she e-mailed to so constantly. Lucian, she remembered, was insanely jealous about the unfailing correspondence, but he spoke little, if ever, of it to Sonja. Erika recalled the time when Sonja left her laptop open and she actually got a look at the signature on an incoming e-mail – from Mr. Michael Corvin.

Erika watched the stranger carefully, wondering greatly whether he might be the mysterious Mr. Corvin. The young man, striding energetically up the walk, was almost to the entrance when he happened to look up – directly into Erika's surprised face!


	11. In Which Lucian Trips Over His Jaw

**Chapter 11**

In Which Lucian Trips Over His Jaw That Fell On the Floor

The stranger had light brown hair – rather tousled, Erika thought dryly, but in a pleasing manner – and light blue eyes that could smile on their own. He was of a similar build as Lucian, and dressed as a rich man would, with an expensive winter overcoat and a suit. Erika just caught a glimpse of a dark blue velvet vest under the coat when he had looked up. Big deal.

For the second time that day, Erika had an opportunity to observe Lorenz. In contrast to the stranger's masculine face, Lorenz's deep brown eyes and dark – almost black – hair rendered him instantly recognizable and also hotter than any other guy in the greater Budapest area. He hadn't noticed Erika.

The stranger recovered himself instantly from the shock of seeing Erika – twenty feet up – peeking around the corner of the house. He made a limited finger gesture to his buddy, and Lorenz looked up, exhibiting surprise as he noticed Erika on her perch. He muttered something back to the other man, and the stranger called up to Erika.

"Hey, we're looking for Sonja Dumak! Would you mind showing us in?" The young man was perfectly serious, yet the expression on his face made Erika feel that he was quite amused.

"Oh! Uh, sure," replied Erika, a little flustered – partly because of the stranger's manner and partly because of Lorenz's presence. Jumping from her roost, she was on the ground in less than two seconds.

"Thanks," said Lorenz, stepping onto the huge, pillared square of the front step. His buddy followed suit. "If you would be so kind…?" Lorenz made a polite gesture toward the door.

Ten minutes and ten pounds of muscle later, Erika held the door open with an effort as the men went in, then led them toward the lounge, hoping that Tomáš and the others had finished with their furniture shifting. To her relief, they had.

"Make yourselves at home," she told them, showing them into the lounge. The stranger seated himself on the luxurious high-backed leather couch, while Lorenz remained standing.

"I think Sonja is just finishing up with afternoon tea," Erika informed them. "If you can loan me your calling cards, I'll take them to her and tell her that you're here."

"Fair enough," answered the stranger, and he handed it to her. It was a simple yet sophisticated card, printed with… _gasp_… BLACK INK!!!!!!!!

"Here's mine," added Lorenz. He placed his own card in her hand.

As she was hurrying away, Erika peeked at the first card. It read:

_**Michael Corvin**_

_**Gera and Kiraly's Community College of Székesféhervár**_

_**No. 117 Spartan Street**_

_**Székesféhervár**_

_**1-343-087-2401**_

"I know that school," Erika said to herself. "Lucian was thinking about going there. And the name was Corvin! It must be Sonja's e-mail buddy." She giggled. "Lorenz Macaro _and_ Michael Corvin. We're in for some pretty wild times around here."

Entering the dining room, Erika found Sonja just rising from her meal with Lucian, Viktor and Amelia being absent.

"Hey, Sonja, there are some guys here to see you," Erika said. "Here are their calling cards."

Sonja eagerly swiped them and read their contents in the span of a nanosecond. "Ah!"

Lucian stood up, following her movements with his eyes. "What's going on?"

Sonja blushed and lowered her eyes self-consciously. "More visitors," she said hurriedly. Sonja turned back to Erika, not seeing the fire that appeared in Lucian's eyes. "Tell them I'll be right down. Oh, and thanks!"

"No problem," replied Erika, slightly bemused, as Sonja brushed past her in unusual haste.

Lucian eyed Erika, his fingers tight around his cup. "Who the heck is 'they'?" He suppressed an animal snarl.

Erika was careful to keep her expression neutral; while Lucian was not known for outbursts of temper – unlike Viktor – he appeared to be in a rather dangerous mood. "Lorenz Macaro and this guy Michael Corvin are here to see Sonja."

The cup shattered as Lucian crushed it. "Lorenz Macaro and Michael Corvin." It was more of a statement that a question, filled with burning hatred.

"Yes, Lucian. Is there a law against people visiting other people?" said Erika.

Lucian stared hard at the wall, trying to fight the instinctive transformation. "Tell them that I'll be down as well – to kill them both," he told her quietly. His voice quivered with rage.

"Very well, Lucian. I didn't know vendettas were your thing."

"SHUT UP AND TELL THEM!"

Erika raced off through the stately front hall and opened one of the lounge's double doors. She could see Lorenz, near the side of the room, admiring a painting of Dracula. The stranger – Michael Corvin – was singing quietly along with a song on his MP3 player. Barely audible sounds leaked from his earphones.

"Hey."

He turned, and pushed pause. "Oh, hey," he said. "What did she say?"

"She'll be right down."

"Good. Thanks a ton," he said, pressing a hundred euro note to her breast as Lorenz looked on in amusement.

Erika's jaw dropped, and in that instant she completely forgot about Lucian's malicious message. "What the frick?" she said. Not that she was complaining. About the money. "You don't have to pay me. Especially not this much."

"No, I really don't," he responded. "But you will accept it as a gift, will you not?"

"Thank you! You're sweet," Erika said gratefully, as eleven point eight billion billion uses for the money rushed through her mind.

"_De nada, mi señorita_," he said amiably, waving his hand. "I have no use for it. Now, I'm sure you have other stuff to do."

"True." Erika shook his hand and exited. Behind her in the lounge, Lorenz settled into a chair and turned to his buddy.

"I'm taking a huge risk coming here," he admitted to his friend.

"Really?" Michael looked interested.

Lorenz looked wry. "I managed to detonate Lucian like a mine by telling him I had a gift for Sonja. He was—" here Lorenz paused, trying to choose the most fitting word – "overzealous about it. Of course I couldn't tell him that _you_ were the gift, or the surprise would have been spoiled." He sighed. "Now he's pretty cheesed off, I imagine."

"Sounds like he might have thought that your 'gift' was something entirely different," said Michael, with a hint of amusement.

Lorenz eyed him and abruptly changed the subject. "So, Michael, tell me how you're familiar with Sonja. Did you meet her in some chat room on MySpace?"

Michael took off his gloves, willing to let the previous subject go. "BigSoccer, actually. Some AC Milan board, long story, don't ask. Naturally, I'm rather ill at ease about meeting her. Is she really a girl?"

To Michael' surprise, Lorenz burst out laughing. "Now I _know_ you've never seen her," he grinned, his dark eyes searching Michael curiously. "Sonja Dumak is quite female. Considered one of the hottest girls in the country, least of all the city. Very much sought after, so to speak."

"Ah, yes," said Michael. "The old 'every-guy-wants-to-date-her' scheme."

Lorenz grinned. "Something like that."

"Is she married?" Michael asked, curious.

Lorenz raised his eyebrows. "I think you'd be the first to know, if she were," he answered, casually. "Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing."

Instantly Michael was alert. "Really. I wonder why," he remarked innocently. His blue eyes darted to Lorenz's face.

"Not why you think," Lorenz said, rather brusquely. "I've never been married, and have no immediate plans to be. I've seen what it can do to people. Although Sonja _is_ beyond a doubt one of the nicest – not to mention one of the hottest – girls I've ever met."

"Good to know," said Michael.

There was a pause, then: "It'll be good to see Lucian again, won't it?" asked Lorenz.

"Heck, yeah," said Michael, his eyes lighting up. "I haven't seen him since he was colleging. Even when I realized that Sonja was living in his inexplicable relative's mansion, I couldn't get up enough nerve to come visit. But _now_…" His voice trailed off. Or could you tell.

"What?" asked Lorenz.

Before either of them could say anything else, the door opened and Sonja entered the room. The pearl combs in her hair glowed like… pearl… combs… in… her hair, cooled by the smooth ocean-blue-gray of her eyes.

The two young men rose to their feet and offered their hands; if Michael was surprised, he did a darn good job of hiding it.

Sonja shook their hands courteously. "You took long enough about it, Lorenz," she twinkled at him. She turned her gaze to Michael, and questions spontaneously were there.

Lorenz sensed them. "Sonja, this is an old buddy of mine, Michael Corvin. He and I know each other from… uh… college. Michael, this is Sonja Dumak. The girl from the AC Milan boards."

Michael shook Sonja's hand warmly; only a twinkle in his eye betrayed the formality of the gesture. "It's an honor, Miss Dumak."

Sonja smiled. "No, the honor is mine, Mr. Corvin," she said like Morpheus. "Especially after all these e-mails. You could call it a dream come true."

He grinned, relaxed at her tone. "You're as sweet as your mail, Miss Dumak. By the way, call me Michael."

"Of course," Sonja agreed, and added archly, "and you are hereafter required to call me Sonja. We know each other already, and all this formality crap is quite arbitrary." She turned to Lorenz. "I might have known that you'd turn up with a surprise like this!" she laughed. "Come on, let's sit down."

"Yes, let's," assented Michael, settling into the same couch as before.

Lorenz stood uneasily.

"Lorenz, what's wrong?" asked Sonja.

He responded, "I have to go now."

"Awww, man," she said. "What pressing matters clamor so loudly for your attention?" She raised an eyebrow playfully.

Lorenz took a deep breath. "Lucian's angry with me," he said slowly, obviously reluctant to trouble her. "He said that he would kill me if he ever saw me here again."

Sonja stared at him, horror dawning in her eyes. "Lucian said _what?_ He's your freaking _friend_, for Cash's sake!"

It was rare that Lorenz was made uncomfortable, but no other word could describe his state of mind just then. "I really have to go," he said, and turned toward the door.

Just then, it opened. Lucian entered, elegantly dressed. "Hello, Macaro," he said grimly, fixing his attention on him alone.

Lorenz started toward him. "Lucian—"

"SHUT UP!" snapped Lucian tightly, coming forward; Michael was behind him, invisible from Lucian's point of view. "To you I'm nobody. Not Lucian. Not Žewłakow. NOBODY! _You are not my friend ANYMORE_! Now get the frick out!"

"LUCIAN, you stop this at _once_!" said Sonja vehemently, rising from her seat. "I am not going to stand by and watch you ruin your life over something as insignificant as this!"

Lucian looked as though he had seen Sonja's clothes disappear. Lorenz interrupted again, before Lucian could say anything else. "Listen, Lucian, if you'd just let me say two words—"

"Okay, fine. Two," said Lucian coldly, turning back to him.

"Michael Corvin," said Lorenz simply.

Michael rose from his seat and winked, smiling amusedly. "He's right, you know, Lucian. You two had better make out—"

Before he could correct his mistake, Lucian exploded. He lost his balance and fell to the floor, roaring with laughter. Sonja followed suit.

Michael sat himself back down and turned his music on with the volume turned way up just so he could hear it over the racket, tapping his fingers to the rhythm.

Still laughing.

Michael looked at his watch.

Still laughing.

He had gone through a whole playlist and was starting on another one.

NOW, they were calming down.

"Did I say 'make out'? I meant make UP!" Michael said with deliberation.

Lucian, having gotten enough air to speak without cracking up, managed to wheeze, "Michael?"

Michael seized Lucian's hand, helped him up, and shook it, grinning widely. "That's me. And I sure as heck hope you're happier about me now that you were a few hours ago."

Lucian had never been so perplexed in his life. "Michael, what in the heck – _you're_ the Mr. Corvin that Sonja's constantly e-mailing?"

"Yeah, we trade e-mails, and sometimes instant messages," Sonja broke in, "I never talked to you about it because you were jealous. But that still doesn't explain how you knew Michael."

"Oh, we're old buddies," declared Lucian, unable to keep his eyes off Michael who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. "Lorenz and I both knew him at college. That was way before I met you," he added.

Michael poked him and said under his breath, "I hear I've been giving you quite a lot of anxiety."

Lucian looked at him sharply. "How the heck did you—"

Michael grinned. "You see these two round things above my nose? They're called eyes, I use them to see things."

"You don't need to be so freaking untactful," retorted Lucian.

Michael shrugged. "Hey, tactfulness can be useful. But I fancy forwardness."

"Gee, thanks for telling me, I never would have guessed," muttered Lucian wryly as Michael began talking with Sonja. He turned to Lorenz.

"Hey, Lorenz, uh… can I talk to you for a second?"

Lorenz threw a glance over at Sonja and Michael, who were armwrestling on a couch. "Sure, sure," he said. They left the lounge and crossed the hall.

Their footsteps didn't echo because the wooden floor had a red carpet on it, so there were no tiny insignificant clicks that mirrored the uncertain mood. Ghostly ghostlike-things of doubt hovered between the two once-good friends. Lucian cleared his throat and faced the other.

"Lorenz," he began, then stopped. "I'm so sorry."

Lorenz's eyes were filled with the concern of a concerned old friend. "It's okay. You didn't know." After a pause, he added, "I understand."

Lucian gave a half-laugh, half-snort and ran his fingers through his long hair. "It's just that… um… well, I…" He drew the curtain back from a tall glass window and stared out at the white world. "I care about Sonja," he said finally, apparently he thought Lorenz didn't know. "I care about what happens to her and all. I don't want people bugging her, like Nicolae does."

From behind, Lorenz studied Lucian. He became intimately familiar with his ass. "I'm sure you do," he said. "And I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression."

Lucian desperately tried to ward off the sober mood with a shrug. "I guess I was a little unreasonable. But there's not a whole lot of time before I leave for the United States, and… well…" Lucian stopped again, unwilling to discuss his most personal wishes, even with Lorenz. _What's so personal about playing Halo?_

Lorenz pretended to understand. "Oh, you don't need to explain everything. It's none of my business, anyways."

* * *

Sonja was amused to say the least. "You really thought I was going to be like Dominique Ačimova, constantly giggling due to sugar inhalation? After all those e-mails? And especially the AC Milan encounter?" She laughed. "Oh man."

Michael shrugged and grinned. "You never really know people on the Internet until you meet them in person."

Her face still registered incredulity. "Well, I hope you're not _too_ disappointed. If you are, I can bring you to the Ačimovič estate, where Dominique will surely be delighted to see you," she laughed.

A look of horror came over Michael's face. "The mere thought of that makes my skin crawl! Lucian's told me all about her – I cringe at the name Dominique."

Sonja smiled – it was almost a grin. "You should," she remarked.

"What? Is she after Lucian?"

She raised her eyebrows. "You really should join the military. They could probably put your keen sense of perception to good use."

Michael guffawed. "That's a good one. Lorenz calls me 'Legolas.' He says I can see far away."

Sonja darted him a laughing glance. "Lorenz _would_ say that."

Michael' face broke into a grin. "You're dang right he would. He's a nice guy – darn perceptive, too, in his own way. But you still haven't answered my question."

"What, about Dominique? Michael, EVERY girl wants to be 'after' Lucian," Sonja replied wryly. "With the exception of a few."

Michael decided not to pursue the matter further. "Oh, Sonja," he said, "remember your promise."

She looked at him questioningly. "What promise are you talking about?"

"Don't tell me you forgot!" he teased her. "The promise about your parents? Remember? You said in one of your e-mails that you'd tell me about them when I came to see you."

Sonja smiled archly. "Ohh, right. Don't tell me you came all this way just to find out about my parents? Come on…"

"Come on yourself," he replied. "That is totally not the reason – I happen to have a another legitimate reason for this." And he gave her a teasing smile. "I have to admit that that mystery played a motivating part in my trip. Anyway, I'm darn sure that a girl as beautiful as yourself wouldn't dream of breaking her word," he pressured her.

Sonja adopted a mock-stern expression. "Of course not. No. And I will not tolerate petty flattery. You suck for trying to flatter me." She looked quite prim.

Michael chuckled. "Sorry_, señorita_. I pray that you will forgive me and spare my life." He cracked his neck joints which made Sonja jump out of her skin. "_Please_ tell me about your parents?" There was a flash of urgency in his eyes that betrayed his casual tone.

"Okay, if you insist." Sonja paused and sobered. "My account is – not in any way glamorous," she said quietly. It wasn't mournful; but at the same time, it was anything but happy. "My dad was a sailor. He disappeared when his ship, the _Flying Dutchman_, was dragged down to the depths by some gigantic tentacled thing with a big mouth and really bad breath.

"Soon after that, my mom got really sick and died. I was eight at the time. Their neighbors, the Bogrovs, took me in, but they had to go to the pound when their business went belly-up." She looked away. "I wanted to stay with them, but the man in charge said I could earn my way by myself – they were already packed out there. I had to join a traveling music company."

Here Michael interrupted, "You HAD to join a traveling…? Uh, forget it. Go on."

"I met Lucian at a concert the company gave. He persuaded his inexplicable relative, Viktor Žewłakow, to take me in. I was twenty then."

Michael was silent for a time. "Wow. Sucked to be you. But not anymore, obviously. It must be great to have a place like this as a permanent residence."

Sonja lifted her eyebrows. "I wouldn't say permanent. When I get married, I'm moving out."

"Ah. Maybe that won't be such a trial after all," said Michael, enigmatically.

Sonja gave him a surprised look. "What in the heck do you mean?"

Before Michael could explain, Lucian reentered. "Lorenz left," he said to Michael. "He'll send the limo back of you need it." Lucian sat down. "PLEEEEEEEEZ stay with us! PLEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEEZ! It'll be great!"

Michael shot a quick glance at Sonja and started to protest. "I really shouldn't inconvenience you—"

"Ohhhhhhhhhh no, Michael," Sonja interrupted. "None of that. You'd be inconveniencing us if you didn't stay. I promise you, we'll love it if you stick around. You'll love it."

Michael shrugged. "Aw, heck. Why not?" Then he grinned as he added, "What could happen?"


	12. In Which Blah Blah Blah

**Chapter 12**

In Which Blah Blah Blah

Grimly, Viktor marched down the staircase. An objectionable task was his: informing Lucian that he was under house arrest. Darn good idea of Amelia's, in contrast to her other suggestions, he thought with a grimace. Viktor braced himself for the nuclear blast – Lucian had always been rather headstrong, and ruling over him with an iron fist had never been easy. Sometimes – a lot of times – Viktor wished he had never taken Lucian in at all. But the next day he would always forget how angry he had been, and Lucian would go off and land himself in the middle of some other cockamamie caper. Viktor had no patience whatsoever with that sort of thing. He was going to teach Lucian, in no uncertain terms, that Viktor was the complete and utter ruler – whether Lucian liked it or not.

"Slave!" he said sharply to Erika, as she was scampering away from the lounge door. "Where is Lucian?"

"He's in the lounge with Sonja, Lord Viktor," Erika answered carefully, sensing his volatile mood and respecting it; everyone knew how vicious Viktor got when he was angry. Erika wondered for a moment whether it had to do with the Zurg Room – or was Viktor angry about something else, something only he knew about? No matter, Viktor was _always_ angry about _something_.

Seeing Viktor enter the lounge, Erika crept up and laid her ear to the door. Things could well be taking an even more interesting turn.

Without noticing their visitor, Viktor cut right to the chase. "Lucian. Could I have a word?" he said softly. _That_ kind of soft.

"Sure, Viktor," responded Lucian pleasantly. "Let me introduce you to my old buddy, this is Michael Corvin. Michael, this is the inexplicable relative himself: Lord Viktor. You well know that the title is merely inherited – for decorative reasons," Lucian concluded.

"It's an honor to meet you, Lord Viktor," said Michael cordially, holding out his hand. Viktor was taken completely off guard.

"What – oh, yes, um, I'm sure the pleasure's all mine. Uh, I think," Viktor said grumpily, bemused to say the least. He did not return the courtesy of shaking the offered hand; Michael dropped it inconspicuously.

Meanwhile, a whole clique of girls had formed outside the door, trying to stifle their involuntary giggles.

"Yeah," they could hear Sonja say, "Lucian and I both know Michael. They were old buddies at college."

"I trade e-mails with Sonja," Michael announced.

"Uh, yeah, of course," Viktor murmured politely. "Um, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to. Lucian, can I see you in my apartment?" With a bow, Viktor left hastily, too flustered to notice the snickering slave girls, who had scattered into the shadows like cockroaches.

"Oh man," began a tittering Erika to Jázmin, "did you hear—"

"Shh, shuttup!" Jázmin interrupted, "the hot guy's saying something."

At this, the girls rushed to the door to secure the best listening place.

"Man, oh, _man_, Lucian," Michael was saying, "how can you _stand_ that guy? Let alone live under the same moon?"

"I gotta admit, it ain't easy," muttered Lucian. Erika could almost hear the grin tugging at his mouth. "Sure, he's not exactly good company, but I have my ways of avoiding him."

"Viktor is a wonderful gentleman," Sonja stated.

"Only when he's with _you_. To everyone else, he's a crabby, self-centered, grouchy old geezer," said Lucian hastily.

"Wow! Pure poetry! Well said!" Michael remarked, approvingly.

Fighting the urge to explode with laughter, Erika turned to the girls.

"Come on," Erika whispered, still giggling, "we've gotta go or Grushenka will be screaming bloody murder. Time to start supper." They scattered off to the kitchen, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

Later that night, while the last things were being cleared off the table and the dishwashers were blaring, Leyba was already settled in her tiny attic room, thinking hard. The object of her ruminations was moneymoneymoney.

She slammed her fist down on the floor. "Fifty euros a week is nowhere _near_ enough," she whined. "Not if I want to go to Spain and make my way as a lady's maid. I gotta have enough money for a plane ticket – that's a hundred euros already – plus clothes, makeup, shoes – it's freaking _outrageous_ how darn much money I'd need! How the frick can they possibly expect me to live on fifty euros a week?"

Leyba rose abruptly and commenced stalking about the room. "I might be able to ask Sonja for a raise; she's no businesswoman, and in all likelihood she'd raise it in no time." Her lips pulled away from her teeth. "But then Amelia would find out; and anyway, even if I did succeed, the extra money wouldn't be any big help, unless it was radically higher." She paused in her walking and cogitated. "The Kovacses are leaving for Valencia soon; it would be perfect if I went with them. But I freakin' need money, and right now. And the people here need a lesson in conduct," she muttered, and rose from her chair.

"I gotta get out of this dump," she hissed. "How _dare_ they treat me like this! Amelia and I have a score to settle – not to mention that insolent slut Erika." She paused to score deep gouges in the wall with her lycan claws and growled, _"I will kill them all… one by one!"_

"Boy, am I glad supper's over," remarked Erika to Olga later that night, as she loaded a dishwasher. "Now I can go and, uh, rest somewhere."

"And, uh, rest somewhere?" inquired Olga, rounding up silverware. "You mean somewhere other than our room?" Erika and Olga shared a small one-room apartment on the third floor.

"Actually, I'm going to visit an acquaintance of mine," Erika told her loftily.

Olga's eyes twinkled. "Who, Taylor?" she asked inquisitively.

Erika opened her mouth indignantly. "Frick no, not Taylor! You've been listening to the rumors again!"

Olga decided it would be fun to fill up a five-gallon bucket with warm water and dump it on Erika. She did. At that time, the astronauts on the space station reported to mission control of hearing a strange screaming noise coming from somewhere on the Earth's surface.

Erika shook her finger in Olga's face. "Gossip is a freakin' sin, Olga, you know that! I should report you to Amy!"

"Report me to Amy?" snorted Olga. "Amelia's probably where rumors START around here. And I _haven't_ been listening to the rumors!"

Erika paused, momentarily taken aback. "Then where the heck did you get that ridiculous theory?"

"Anyone with a shred of intelligence can tell that Tay—"

"SHUT THE HECK UP!" roared Erika.

"Shhhhhh! Grushenka's coming!"

"Crap!" Erika quickly started throwing dishes into the dishwasher. Olga began washing pots and pans as if nothing else mattered.

Grushenka swept in. "Hurry the heck up. Oh, frick! There's water all over the floor! Forget it. Get out! I'll finish it."

The two girls scrambled out of the kitchen eagerly, heading for their apartment.

"So where _are_ you going, exactly?" Olga asked Erika as they hurried down the hall.

"To the seamstress's," Erika returned. "She has something to tell me."

"Oh." Olga paused. "What?"

"I am not authorized to divulge that information at this time," answered Erika. "I will if she says I can, though."

"Oh, okay. Well, see you in the apartment." And they parted. Neither one of them noticed the glowing green eyes of a female lycanthrope in the shadows. "Going to the seamstress's, are we?" it hissed. "I think I'll look into this a bit. There may be moneymoneymoney to be had." And it disappeared.

* * *

Michael had found his lavish apartment comfortable. Can you believe that? Lucian had explained to him that they always kept one room aired and ready in case an unexpected visitor dropped by.

"Like me," Michael had said.

"Yeah, like you," Lucian had agreed.

Now, ready for bed, he flopped down onto the mattress (the kind with springs) and piled the fluffy quilts over himself. Lucian was a great guy, he thought. And Sonja – man, Sonja was even better than he'd hoped she'd be. What a beautiful, charismatic, gracious, poised, not to mention hot, young woman…

He turned over, yawned and stretched about 800 times, and then went to sleep.

* * *

Down in the library, Lucian wasn't feeling nearly so nice as Michael would have assumed. Viktor had just explained to him that he was under house arrest.

"Do you mean to tell me that I can't go anywhere without – " here he paused, sneering – "your permission?"

"Yes," retorted Viktor. "I think the way you've acted in the past few days more than warrants this action."

Lucian turned away and rubbed his brow, suddenly tired. "This is about the Zurg Room, isn't it?"

Viktor studied Lucian's ass coldly. "That's part of it."

Lucian whipped around, furious. "Frick you!" he seethed, with livid emphasis on the first word. "I was willing to respect your decision before, but now you go and heap more punishment on me. What the heck is the MATTER with you?" He came forward. "Letting the matter drop wasn't enough, now you need to place me under arrest! Who the frick do you think you are, coming in here with these daddanged condemnations as if I'm a freaking criminal?" He banged a chair. "It's absolutely despicable!"

"I don't give _two craps_ whether you think it's despicable or not," Viktor snapped angrily. "You are to obey me. I am still the King of Ördögház. You are not – and, since you're a lycan, you're under my hand."

Lucian had learned to control the impulse to transform when he was in college; had Viktor been born a lycanthrope, no one would know what he looked like in human form. Or what he looked like at all, since no one would ever see him and live. "Maybe so. But how are you going to explain this _farce_ to Sonja? And our guest?"

"What the heck guest are you talking about?" growled Viktor.

Lucian came forward. "Michael Corvin, you freaking dumbass! The young guy in the lounge. I freaking introduced you! He's staying with us for a while."

Viktor stared, and his wrath began to tower again. "Lucian, when I said you could invite your colleagues here, I meant with my authorization." His voice seethed with sneering derision. "This is ridiculous – as you said so yourself. He'll have to leave."

Lucian leaned closer, so close, in fact, that he nearly bumped into Viktor's nose. His face was straight, but his tone was smug. "Try telling that to Sonja, Mr. High'n'Mighty-Big-Shot-Told-You-So-Boss-of-the-World," he said with relish.

The look on Viktor's face was priceless. "Wh-what do you mean?"

Having come thisclose to passing out from Viktor's breath, Lucian stepped back. "He's every bit as much Sonja's friend as he is mine – he came to visit _her_. Whatever bullcrap decision you make, you'll have to fully explain it to her as well." He pushed further, forcing his voice to be quiet. "Listen, Viktor. For a change, just listen. All I want is two things. One, I want Michael to stay, without my having to explain any sort of confinement. Two, I want to – no, _need_ to – no, VIKTOR! I _MUST_ USE THE SOUTH WING LOUNGE!" He stopped to catch his breath. "This is absolutely perfect for what I want, and you never even use it anyway."

It was the wrong thing to say at this hour. In an instant, Viktor's countenance was candy-apple red. "YOU WILL NEVER EVER, EVER USE THAT ROOM!" he exploded. "Invite DAVID BECKHAM to visit for all I care! Go wherever the FRICK you want! But one thing I promise you, you will NEVER USE THAT ROOM FOR _ANYTHING_! _**EVER!**_" And he slammed the door behind him with such force that a bookshelf toppled over and fell to the floor.

_That _does_ it_, Lucian thought. _I've had enough of this bullcrap. We'll see how he feels about _this.

Picking up a coconut that was just lying around, Lucian tossed it a couple of times, then went to the door and opened it quietly. Viktor was stomping down the long hallway, oblivious of what was about to happen to him.

Lucian took a baseball pitcher's stance, wound up and let fly.

The coconut impacted with Viktor's skull with such a force that it exploded, sending shards and coconut milk everywhere.

Viktor fell flat on his face, knocked out cold.

"BULLSEYE!"

* * *

Erika knocked on the seamstress's door, which creaked open slightly. Erika just caught the glitter of eyes in the dark crack; then she stepped backwards as the door opened wider and the seamstress's countenance peeked out. "Yes? Oh, Erika. Come on in – I was just getting back from an errand."

"Getting back?" puzzled Erika, once she was inside.

"Yeah, from downstairs," returned the seamstress, closing the door behind her.

Erika was more confused than ever. "How could you have? I didn't see you anywhere."

"I can avoid being seen, if I wish. But to disappear entirely; that is a rare gift," she said, overdramatically then lapsed into silence. At length she said, "Well, I suppose we should cut to the chase."

Erika trod softly over the worn, dark green rug – from her experience with rugs, she had known them to act like banana peels when you least want them to – and seated herself on a cabinet chair near the window. The moon was full and she was glad it didn't hold its sway over the lycanthropes; or else they'd be drowning in bloodthirsty cannibal beasties. As she gazed around, Erika was struck at how bleak the room appeared, with only a naked lightbulb to light it. She wondered why the woman decided to hide herself away from the rest of the world. Come to think of it, why did she even work at the mansion to begin with? Surely, she had no family to support, and somehow Erika didn't get the impression that she was poor.

Suddenly, Erika decided that she wanted nothing to do with anything. She regretted ever asking about the Zurg Room; Erika had no fancy to know the story, much less carry the so-called "heavy responsibility" that came with it.

She stood up. "Can I go now?" she begged.

The woman looked at her, concerned. "Why? Are you scared?"

Erika felt guilty and alarmed in the same instant. "Well, it's just that I don't think I want to hear the story so much anymore," she said. "I know you think I'm not all that brave—"

"Oh, no no," said the seamstress, "I think you're smart, and more prudent than most other people."

"Well, why do _I_ have to hear it? Why me?"

"Because if this chicken-fight continues, we'll have a freakin' family feud on our hands," said the seamstress, her tone taking a disgusted note. "Trust me, I've seen 'em. I know not only how they begin but how they end and believe me, it's not pretty. Based on what I've seen so far, Lucian'll be executed and Sonja caught in the middle. She'll probably be executed too, if she plays Halo with Lucian, and Viktor will go completely insane. It'll kill anyone involved."

"Insane?" asked Erika, thunderstruck. Her apprehension was immediately forgotten. "I always knew Viktor was crazy to a certain extent, but… _insane?_"

"Oh, yeah."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" declared Erika with conviction. "He couldn't possibly go insane about something as insignificant as that. Nobody ever became a psychopath because their inexplicable relative asked to play Halo in a lounge that's been kept shut up for centuries." Erika looked downright disgusted.

"They would if they had a good reason," the seamstress said evenly.

Erika was on the verge of scoffing. "Show me _one_."

"Hey, I know Viktor a lot better than you do!" snapped the seamstress, impatient. "His personality is an eccentric one, I'll give you that – and he borders on despondency. Practically _dependent_ on it. He fights against people who are in his way. Lucian's just like him, which doesn't help things, I might add."

Erika was still skeptical. "Yeah, but—" she began.

"Darn it, will you just listen!" said the seamstress. "After you hear it, all you have to do is tell it to Lucian. It's real easy."

Outside in the hall, Sonja passed by their door – and stopped upon hearing voices. Curious, she paused and listened.

Nine hundred thirty-eight years ago, Viktor Žewłakow had been the hotheaded, reckless, and very sexy son of one of the most successful Polish billionaires at the time; the Žewłakows had emigrated to Hungary before Viktor had even been born. Viktor, himself, had always been a debonair young vampire, popular with the girls and willing to throw everything on a bet; without his dad's firm guidance, he would have become a denizen of some casino-cum-strip club in Krakow.

But Viktor, incredibly, had good qualities as well. He was talented in all the fine arts – music, painting, blah blah blah – and was particularly interested in music. He would literally stay up all night, writing and re-writing songs and other stuff, and when he got sick of that he'd paint an apocalyptic space battle or play _Eye of the Tiger_ on his guitar.

Viktor also had a passion for English, Mandarin, and advanced math – anything that forced one to use the entire brain. His daddy, Andrzej, even though he disapproved of music in general, allowed him to enter Virginia Tech University in the United States to study it there.

But the distance between himself and his daddy bolstered Viktor. Instead of studying, he would do nothing but write songs all day – sometimes playing his electric guitar, sometimes synthesizer, but always composing. And at night, he'd attend wild parties and racked up gigantic gambling debts.

He had a legion of self-styled "friends,"; he was liberal with his money and would blow atrocious mountains of cash on anyone who took his fancy. Soon he dropped any illusion of studying, and dove headfirst into a tumult of music and constant partying.

Finally Andrzej wrote to his son and told him that he would drag his ass out of Blacksburg if he continued his present streak. Viktor sobered somewhat, and managed to pass most of his classes. But he was not entirely tamed. During his junior year, he became infatuated with an English chick – of some significance – named Victoria Adams. She gave him every kind of encouragement – including ones he didn't deserve – and Viktor randomly decided that he was madly in love. They became practically engaged.

One day, however, when he had not seen her for a while, he received an e-mail. It was from Victoria, stating coldly that she was engaged to someone richer than he – some hot football superstar – and that she wished to break off her intimacy with him, an insignificant Polish-Hungarian fortune hunter.

Despondent, Viktor returned to his old ways, hoping to erase the memory of Victoria and regain some excitement. Andrzej wrote again to his son, demanding angrily that Viktor pay his own gambling debts. Viktor dashed off an insolent letter back, then went back to his whirl of partying like a cockroach goes back to its hole.

A few days later, news arrived. Andrzej had died, supposedly murdered by a bunch of misguided humans.

In shock at both occurrences, Viktor turned into a vegetable. He stopped attending parties, and gambling – and strippers – no longer held any fascination for him. His buddies, so easily gained, vanished into Blacksburg society to seek out another enthusiastic billionaire. Viktor didn't care about college anymore, and left almost immediately, devoting his time solely to music.

That winter Viktor got sick. REALLY sick. Doctor after doctor visited him, and doctor after doctor went out shaking their heads hopelessly, convinced that the case was incurable. His body could only recover if he'd FREAKIN' GET OVER IT!

It was impossible for Viktor to go back to Hungary because of his condition. So, slowly, gradually, he began to _literally_ turn into a vegetable. He quit eating. Socialization held no interest for him; he shut himself away, even from most of his doctors.

Viktor was pathetic to look at, pale and pallid, kind of like Gollum. People shunned him, not enjoying the company of the crazy vegetable with the piercing carrot-colored eyes. He still studied math, sometimes, endangering his sight. Occasionally he'd have a nurse push him in a wheelchair for long periods of time through parks, cities, or along rivers. This was something NO ONE wanted to do, so the nurses would draw straws; whoever lost got treated to pizza and ice cream after the ordeal.

One day, when he was being pushed through one of these parks, he met a girl. Her name was Ilona Corvinus; she had come to the United States from Yugoslavia – now Serbia and Montenegro – to recover her health, leaving her family behind. Nearly recovered, she had been about to travel back to Yugoslavia when she met Viktor. She was inexplicably attracted to this pitiful young vampire who was paler than even a vampire should be, and thin as Gollum, and yet who could compose such spectacular music. Maybe he reminded her of how _she_ used to be – lonely, friendless, and ailing. Or maybe she was just mentally deranged…

Ilona called her father and asked him if she could stay a little longer; she had met a young vampire named Viktor Žewłakow who was deathly sick, and she wanted to stay and try to help him get better. After a heated argument which involved raised voices and waving arms, her father gave reluctant permission.

Ilona devoted her time exclusively to caring for Viktor, and he began to recover at blinding rapidity. Soon he stopped looking like Gollum. He was well enough, and more, to make the flight again.

He and Ilona went home together; Viktor, having inherited both the mansion and the family fortune from his dead daddy, was now the King of Ördögház. Ilona promised to visit him ASAP.

Viktor waited for some weeks for her, and then got impatient. He wrote her a mushy letter, asking her to come as soon as she could – and whether she'd marry him.

She responded immediately, saying duh, and Ilona arrived at Ördögház the next day. As soon as her parents arrived, they got married, and lived quite recklessly for several months.

Ilona soon gave birth to a son, whom they named Krzysztof. But soon news came of Ilona's brother, William. He had been become a lycanthrope in Ukraine; Ilona insisted upon going to him. Viktor wanted to accompany her, but, conveniently, pressing business made it impossible. So Ilona, with her son, took the first flight to Kiev.

Viktor spent several long, impatient weeks in his mansion, waiting for her to come the heck back. Her e-mails and phonecalls came frequently; finally, she wrote that she was returning on the fastest airliner available. No e-mails or phonecalls reached him for a long time.

He started to get a funny feeling. A Boeing 747 would _not_ have taken so darn long to touch down in the Budapest airport. But then, maybe they ran out of gas and had to land at another airport, or sit in a holding pattern… He got more anxious every day.

Finally, news arrived. The plane had crashed after the engines blew up for no reason; practically everyone was killed. Listed among the dead was Ilona Corvinus.

Nowhere could Viktor find news of his son, who had gone with Ilona. Having inexplicably gotten S.R. 819, he fell into a deep fever. The kind that heats up an entire room.

During the time he was sick, the Corvinus's had lost their fortune and moved to another country. Their address had been stupidly misplaced, another blow to Viktor. For decades after he recovered, Viktor tried to find some, any, of Ilona's relatives. Especially his son, who had disappeared. For him, not knowing was worse than the worst. He employed legions of men to search for them, but no.

He never spoke their names again. Nor did he ever discover the modern marvel that is the world wide web which he could easily have used to search for the Corvinuses.

"Only now – the better part of a thousand years later – is he _finally_ starting to recover," said the seamtress.

Outside the door, Sonja turned deathly white and hurried off, sickened. She threw up in a corner.

Erika was shocked and overwhelmed with the tale. "That is… terrible," she said. "No bloody wonder he's always angry. Of course, that's still no excuse." She was silent for a while, and then a thought struck her. "Wait a minute. Viktor would never tell you all that," she exclaimed, "how the heck did you find all that out?"

Again the seamstress's clear – and mortally terrifying – gaze. "My name's Galina Corvinus. Well, techincally speaking, it's Stojkova, but Corvinus is my maiden name. Ilona was my sister."


	13. In Which There Is A Tunnel

**Chapter 13**

In Which There Is A Tunnel

"What?" Erika leaned forward, staring. "You're freakin' related to Ilona?"

"_Jawohl, Frau Führer. Que curioso_," returned the seamstress, amused at Erika's outburst. "I was sixteen when that happened, but I still remember it vividly. My sister told me everything."

"Why in the heck don't you tell Viktor, for crying out loud? You told me yourself that he searched all over the world for anyone who _might_ be related to Ilona."

"Well, I've given that a lot of thought," she admitted. "I don't think it would be a good idea to tell him. He's been really sick before, right after a shock, and he could get sick again. Besides, you know how volatile his temper is. Also, I don't know if he'll be happy or simply furious that the whole thing had to be dragged up again after being buried for centuries. Probably the latter."

"Ah."

The seamstress spoke again. "Anyway, now I need you to tell this story to Lucian ASAP. No one besides you and he are to know about this. Am I clear?"

Erika felt honored to be the one chosen to tell Lucian a story!!! Could you _imagine_ being given such a responsibility? "Transparently," she said.

(Beat)

Erika felt awkward, and asked a question. "Why do you even work here – why the heck aren't you still with your family?"

An impassive expression crossed the seamstress's face. "My family stupidly fought a short time after my dad's business went belly up," she said. "It was completely foolhardy to begin with." She paused for a moment, then added, "Which is why I DON'T want to see something like that repeated."

"Ah," said Erika, and, in an effort to change the subject, asked, "What can I call you? It wouldn't be a good idea to call you Miss Corvinus, and Seamstress kinda sucks."

The seamstress looked confused. "Why don't you call me Galina, then?"

Erika slapped her forehead. "Why do I _do_ that?"

Galina stood up and walked across the room. "Hey, c'mere. I wanna show you something," she said. "It's high time I told someone."

"Told someone what?" Erika asked.

"Just come here," and Galina beckoned. "See anything irregular in that wall over there?"

Erika squinted in the dim light. Didn't the seamstress understand the wisdom of replacing light bulbs? "Well…not—really, no. Actually not. Wait. I see a switch, and there's a label that says 'push to open' underneath it," she said, pointing to a switch with a label underneath it that said 'push to open.' "Push to open what?"

Galina merely smiled. "Just watch," and she pushed it. A section of the wall disappeared, revealing a door!!!

Erika gasped in pure horror, not sure whether to be frightened or fascinated. "What the shoot is that?" she managed.

"I'm getting to that," was the reply. Using her hand, Galina turned the door knob and the door opened. Only blackness could be seen through it. _Ooh, scary!_

By this time Erika realized that being surprised by anything was useless. "What the heck is _in_ there?" she asked, curiously.

"Oh, not much. Just a minotaur here and there, a few odd Shelobs, nothing to be too concerned about," the seamstress replied, grabbing a floodlight and beckoning Erika into the corridor.

Erika hesitated for a moment, then stepped through. They disappeared into the black tunnel – which was now not so black – as the door swung shut all by itself, trapping them forever!

* * *

"Holy frick," said Tomáš to Pierce and Taylor. "This is a darn fine apartment you guys got."

The three boys were rooming together in a small apartment on the second floor. Most of the slave's apartments were on the third floor, but some were one the second floor, near the staircase to the kitchen.

The furnishings consisted of two bunks, a bed, two dressers, an entertainment center on which a TV stood, accompanied by an Xbox and Xbox 360. On the floor was CARPETING! On the beds were BLANKETS and PILLOWS! How shocking!

There were a few hunting rifles in one corner, (the boys' most treasured possessions) as well as a shotgun and ammunition. Somehow they always found time for hunting.

"Well thanks, Tomáš, but remember it's yours too now. You can come and go as you please," said Taylor.

Pierce chuckled humorlessly. "Just as long as you avoid Amelia."

Taylor gave an exasperated sigh. "Would you _stop_ that!" he grumbled.

Luckily, Tomáš interrupted. "Oh hey, I almost forgot. It's about Mr. Great Big Ugly Crybaby Grandpappy Geezer, whatever the heck his name is."

"Oh, you mean Viktor?" asked Taylor.

Tomáš nodded. "Yeah. I was out in the garden, see – I had to get Trix to serve at the table. Crappy job if there ever was one."

"Get to the freakin' point!" said Pierce, eager for the rest of the story.

"I was behind the hedge, trying to catch that maggot—the worm ran off, by the way. So I come around this bend, and guess what I see? Viktor sitting on a bench."

Pierce looked unimpressed. "Uh, so? So what?"

Tomáš was not perturbed. "You'll see in a minute if you'll keep your freakin' mouth shut," he returned. "He wasn't just sitting there. He was sitting there _crying like a baby_! A hungry, angry baby."

The boys started at the sound of knocking. Taylor was up the fastest, he leaped out from the lower bunk and opened the door cautiously. One never knew when Amelia might be making her night rounds to make sure everyone was silent as the grave.

"Hello?" he whispered into the darkness.

A giggle sounded in answer. "Pizza delivery. It's Jázmin."

The door flew open. "Well, come in……COME IN!!!!!!" Taylor said.

Stepping over the threshold, Jázmin pursed her lips and shook her head in mock reproof, "Guys," she said, "when they sense you've got food they're all chivalrous and well mannered, then when you refuse to give 'em food, you're suddenly Adolf Hitler."

"Come on, hot stuff," drawled Tomáš, scenting the appetizing smell of pepperoni and Italian sausage pizza wafting up from the red thing-that-pizza-delivery-boys-carry-pizzas-in. His family had pizza about once every two hundred years. "Be reasonable! We're poor starving joes who've been deprived of nourishment by a sexy mean babe called Amelia. Have a little pity!" he begged.

"Yeah, let's see what you've got, Jázmin," said Pierce. "I'll even give you a tip." He winked at Taylor.

Jázmin rolled her eyes; she'd seen through his tactic as easily as one can see through glass. "See? What did I tell you?" she asked, addressing a nearby ghost.

"Come on, Jázmin," complained Taylor good-naturedly. "Are you going to stand there all night waiting for Amy to kill you or are you going to actually deliver the pizza?"

"Fine, fine." And Jázmin gave them the pizzas. The eager eyes of the boys beheld: two large pizzas, one pepperoni and one sausage, both hot.

Tomáš's eyes opened wide, and he spoke for all of them. "None of this will go to waste."

"I'll leave the bag here for now," Jázmin told them. "Watch out for Amelia, and _sayonara_."

"_Adios_!" called Pierce, with his mouth full of pizza.

"Say, Pierce," said Tomáš, grabbing a big piece of pepperoni, "your girlfriend is one hot chick."

Pierce smirked. "Who, Jázmin?" He had inhaled his first piece and went for another one. "Tell me you're joking."

"No, not Jázmin," said Tomáš. "Erika. The busty blonde hottie."

A wry expression came into Pierce's eyes. "Sweetass would protest most heatedly to the term girlfriend," he said dryly.

"Yeah," said Taylor. "So don't start making risqué remarks. Pierce does enough of that already, making comments about her ass."

Tomáš held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Whoa, whoa, all right. I didn't say anything, I've noticed nothing, and I won't say anything about it."

* * *

In Galina's apartment, all was quiet…… The full moon peeked in between the curtains at the window, keeping watch over everything. Those people aren't kidding when they say "man in the moon," are they? The trees outside rustled softly in the wind. A deafening silence prevailed. Then there was an incredibly annoying scraping noise at the door. Kind of like a mouse gnawing, only worse.

Someone was trying to get in. _**DUH!**_ Whoever it was was using a lock picker.

A sharp click was heard, and then the door opened partway. A head was cautiously thrust through the doorway, peering all around to make certain the apartment was empty.

"Ah," it muttered. "She's gone. That is good," and the figure slipped through and closed the door, being careful not to let the hinges squeak. Once in, the burglar looked around with satisfaction, grasping a cloth bag.

Leyba – seriously, who else would it be? – darted over to the bed, running her hands over the mattress to make sure nothing was hidden inside. Then she ripped off the coverlet and examined underneath the bed.

"Nothing. Darn it!" she gritted. "We're going to have to work on that." Stalking over to the tiny wardrobe, Leyba jerked open the door. Still nothing. No wait. She discovered the secret drawer in the back of the wardrobe that no one knew about. Yanking it open, Leyba's fingers closed over the golden locket.

Her fingernails found their way into the tiny crack and the locket popped open, revealing an old photograph of a teenaged girl. The deep, languid pools of the girl's eyes gazed up at Leyba. They were saying: get your stinking hands off me, you craven cur.

Leyba scoffed. "What a worthless piece of crap," she murmured. Ripping the photo out, she threw it onto the wardrobe's floor, then tossed the locket carelessly into her bag.

Leyba's wolf senses sensed something. Voices. Someone was coming!!!! She scrambled into the wardrobe and closed the door as far as she dared. Holding it open a crack, she peeked out and gasped. The wall to her left opened up.

As she watched in breathless suspense, two figures emerged. One was a girl, the other was a grown woman. She stiffened. They were Erika and the seamstress.

"Wow," Erika was saying breathlessly, "that was remarkable."

Leyba jeered silently. "_It doesn't take crap to amaze you, you freaking whore_."

"You had no idea?" asked Galina, with an odd smile. Her eyes darted to the unmade bed, and Leyba caught her breath. But the next instant Galina's glance returned to Erika.

"No!" declared Erika. "And it leads to all the main rooms in the mansion?"

Leyba listened with growing interest. "_What_?"

"Yup. I obviously didn't have time to show you everywhere it leads, but it does go to most of the main rooms, and at least all of the apartments."

"It must be really big, then," said Erika, wonderingly.

Leyba sneered again. "_You are so freaking stupid, Erika._"

"Maybe I can show you more of it another time," said the seamstress, "but for now, go on to bed. It's darn late," and Galina's eyes flickered toward the wardrobe for a moment, then passed on.

"Oh, yeah," agreed Erika. "I'm getting pretty tired myself. Bye, Galina."

"Bye. Oh, wait a minute, and I'll go with you. I have some things to drop off in – um – the kitchen," and she hastily picked up a few oddities lying on her chair. Then, Erika and the seamstress exited.

"Yes!" Leyba exclaimed, quietly, still hidden inside the wardrobe. "The passage leads to other rooms – I can steal a lot more than this hundred and fifty euro locket!"


	14. In Which the Lycanthrope Steals Stuff

**Chapter 14**

In Which the Misanthropic Lycanthrope Steals Stuff

Leyba slipped out of the wardrobe and crossed the room in seconds. She flipped the switch and a door-shaped section of the wall disappeared, revealing another door. Leyba turned the knob and the door swung open with an unnerving scraping sound. Leyba jumped back, hesitant about entering the narrow corridor, and reasonably so. It was pitch black inside and silent as a tomb.

"I know what to do," said Leyba to herself. She appropriated a small flashlight from a nightstand and switched it on. It needed new batteries; the bulb was dim and cast eerie shadows all around. The flickered and writhed, moving with her, following her, surrounding her, the spirits of her evil intent. Trying to ignore the leering shapes that seemed to want to suck the life out of her with some horrible proboscis, Leyba mustered her courage and stepped through the narrow doorway.

The passage was lined with concrete, and sharp turns were everywhere. Before Leyba had gone even two inches, she was faced with two different routes: one to the right, and one to the left. Deciding quickly, she opted for the one to the right. She hurried down it as quietly as she could.

The shadows were still all around her, writhing in and out of the partial light. Leyba stopped suddenly, as she heard a faint sound in the crushing blackness behind her.

The voices of a thousand misgivings hissed in her ear. Supposing the seamstress was nocturnal and enjoyed a stroll down the corridor every night… maybe Viktor knew about them… what if she got lost? Or caught? "I won't get caught," Leyba said through clenched wolf-teeth. She thought of the new life she could have with enough moneymoneymoney – all she had to do was slip in and out quickly, and take the things that nobody wanted.

It was then that another small voice hissed in her ear, one she'd never heard before. Why was she even doing this? She didn't have to turn thief or have money to be happy. Fifty euros was enough for anyone to live on, if they didn't have delusions about being a lady's maid. And the people here certainly weren't cruel slavedrivers. Why couldn't she live as a proper upright person? Why couldn't she forgive Erika for simply being nicer and more likeable than she?

Leyba set her teeth. "Never!" she whispered fiercely. "I will never, _ever_ do that. _I_ am the victim here, _I_ am the one being battered and abused. Everyone _else_ takes pleasure in antagonizing _me_, especially Erika. The people here _are_ cruel slavedrivers, fifty euros is nowhere near enough to live on, and turning thief and having moneymoneymoney is the _only_ way to be happy."

She came to what looked like the end of the passageway. Opening the door gingerly, Leyba peered out. No one was around. She slipped out and began to make her way back to her apartment.

She stopped. The seamstress had said that the passageways led all over the mansion. Which meant there had to be another door, just across the hall—

Yep. In the innocent-looking façade, Leyba found another button that said 'push to open.' She pressed it, and the panel swung open; Leyba reentered the dark corridor.

Feeling her way along, she suddenly stopped. Her fingers had discovered a wooden panel in the brick wall. There was a kind of handle to enable one to open it from the inside. It was an entrance to an apartment, Leyba decided. She tugged at the handle, and the door came open with a feeble protest.

Leyba froze, hoping no one heard it. But upon hearing no alarm, she deduced that no one had noticed it. She crept forward. The door fell shut silently behind her, and at the same moment, the battery in her flashlight went out.

Now she was in other darkness. Leyba swore. "Freaking great. _Now_ what?" Then she stumbled over a footstool. She nearly howled at the moon as she felt it; the footstool was a gaudy green velvet one that only Amelia used. It never came out of her dressing room. "The jackpot!"

She skulked toward Amelia's vanity; her eyes had become adjusted to the moonlight shining in from behind the curtains, and she could see the contours of the room quite well. Disappointed to find nothing on the surface, Leyba pulled open the drawer. Inside was a velvet bag containing only a pair of golden bracelets, which was a very strange sight to see, considering Amelia wore more jewelry than anyone else in the mansion. Anyone else in Europe, even.

Leyba was far from satisfied; her face contorted with disappointment and anger. "Daddang her," she muttered. "Does she freaking _sleep_ with all her jewelry on? Because, for a L'Óreal face and jewelry model, she sure as heck doesn't seem to keep a whole lot in her vanity. She's _got_ to have more than this." She stopped as she glimpsed something else hidden in the depths of the drawer.

Lying in the drawer was a brilliant silver pendant; it seemed to give off radiance. Besides this there was an onyx ring, matching the pendant's radiance in the deep darkness.

Quickly producing plastic gloves, Leyba donned them so the silver wouldn't burn her skin, and snatched the prizes. She turned swiftly toward the secret door. For a moment it looked like she was going to escape unscathed. Then the plush, thick rug below her gave a sudden, treacherous turn, throwing Leyba flat.

_Slippin' rippin' dang fang rotten zarg barg-a-ding-dong!_

An oil lamp had fallen to the floor, its hurricane shattered.

Just then, a piercing, unearthly shrill voice screeched from the other room. Recognizing the sound as Amelia's bloodlust shriek, Leyba dashed toward the secret door, only to skid to an abrupt halt.

She dropped the freaking silver pendant. Leyba spun around and hurriedly groped the area where she had fallen. Where the frick were they? She swore silently, all too aware of Amelia's bloodthirsty screams of rage.

Suddenly her fingers came in contact with something cold and hard. She quickly snatched it from where it had fallen and thrust it into her cloth bag. Through the wall Leyba could hear Amelia still screaming bloody murder.

"Bloody murder! Bloody murder!"

Leyba fought the urge to burst out laughing as she dashed back into the passage and quickly closed the door.

"Let's see you people find me out, now!"

* * *

Lying in his bed, Lucian awoke with a start. Sitting up, he gazed around wildly. Hearing no further sound, he gradually relaxed.

"That's weird," he muttered, eyeing the darkness uneasily. "I usually hibernate. Wonder what woke me up." He settled back into the bedclothes, only to start up again, unnerved, maybe by some noise…

"What the frick?" His cell phone was ringing. Well, vibrating.

Grumbling, he sat up and answered it. "If this isn't an insanely beautiful woman, I'm hanging up."

"Lucian! Someone broke into Amelia's apartment! Viktor needs you immediately!" came the voice of a slave.

"I'll be right there!" Lucian hung up, sprang out of bed and put on his robe. Hurrying down the hall, he found Amelia's apartment a scene of Normandy-grade bedlam. Terrified slaves tore in all directions, frantically trying to understand, not to mention carry out, Amelia's crazed orders. Amelia herself was screeching like an enraged panther. Viktor was the only one not showing signs of utter confusion, standing by the furious vampiress in an attitude of tolerance, making no attempt to make her SHUTTUP. Espying Lucian, Viktor strode over to where his inexplicable relative was standing.

"WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON HERE?!" Lucian had to bellow in order to be heard.

Viktor followed suit. "AMELIA CLAIMS THAT A BURGLAR BROKE INTO HER APARTMENT WHILE SHE WAS ASLEEP! SHE WAS AWAKENED BY A CRASH." Viktor's tone, though loud, was dubious, if not sarcastic. Amelia bristled at it.

"That is _true_!" she broke in. "I was asleep when I was suddenly awakened by a crash. Furthermore," she continued, her eyes glowing crimson, her fangs now prominent, "I want you and your lycan _pet_ to investigate the matter. _Immediately_!"

"Hold on there—" began Lucian, indignant at being called a pet. Viktor nudged him in the ribs.

"Humor her," he hissed into Lucian's ear. "Not even I can do anything with Amelia when she's somnolent."

Grudgingly Lucian quelled his irate retorts and followed his inexplicable relative into Amelia's dressing room. Amelia brought up the rear. Slaves flooded in around them, waving flashlights. Maybe the power went out.

At first Lucian didn't see the shattered lamp. "I don't—" he began, and stopped short as he caught sight of the glass. He picked up a shard and wrinkled his nose; it smelled like stale tea.

"What is it?" asked Viktor.

"A broken hurricane for an oil lamp."

"See? _See?_" Amelia shouted. "I remember taking physics in science class at school and I NEVER ONCE read about lamps jumping up and breaking themselves!"

"That's because you missed the part about lamps jumping DOWN and breaking themselves." Lucian simply couldn't resist this juicy retort.

"Frick you!" Amelia snapped. "Obviously a filthy hooligan broke in and smashed it for spite."

Viktor nearly burst into a fit of laughter. "Amelia, anyone with an IQ of 75 would know that smashing glass would wake you up. _I_ think that somebody broke in somehow and destroyed the lamp by accident."

"I agree with Viktor." Lucian rushed on before Amelia could object. "In that case, the intruder would have stolen something, though. Are you missing anything, Lady?"

"How the _FRICK_ should I know? I only woke up _five minutes ago_!" Amelia snarled viciously.

"Then will you kindly oblige us by ascertaining whether or not you were robbed?" Viktor asked, with contempt.

Amelia hurried over to her vanity and jerked the door open.

"What's missing?" Lucian asked impatiently.

"There doesn't seem to—" Suddenly she gave a primal shriek.

"Oh, _now_ what?" Viktor complained.

"My silver pendant is gone! And so is my onyx ring!" Amelia exclaimed.

"Gone? What is all this?" demanded Sonja, arriving on the scene. "What are you babbling about, Lady Amelia? What in the heck is going on?"

"A filthy burglar broke into my apartment and STOLE MY SILVER PENDANT!" Amelia thundered, nearly distracted.

"What? A burglar?" Sonja repeated. "You mean there's an intruder in this house, this very minute?"

"No, no, no," Lucian hastened to say. "All it means is that within the last twenty minutes a thief broke in and stole some valuables. The actual intruder is probably long gone by now."

* * *

Still hidden in the passageway, Leyba grinned, her snakelike eyes narrowing to mere slits. "They're all so _stupid_! So freaking _ignorant_! It's the perfect cover – with everyone buzzing around her apartment, no one'll be on the watch." Leyba wandered about in the dark passage, trying various doors.

"Yes," she said softly, opening a particularly narrow door. Erika's apartment could be seen through it. Leyba squeezed through the desperately thin doorway and returned in a short while, sniggering – and without the bracelets. "Small price. But totally worth it," she muttered.

Finally she came upon some hidden stairs that led down to the front hall. Slipping out, Leyba replaced the tapestry that had concealed the floor. Then she sneaked lightly up the stairs to her attic room.

Leyba got down on her knees and pried up the dusty oaken plank, uncovering a small cavity. Coughing in the cloud of dust, she carefully placed the 'loot' underneath, then replaced the board as it was before. Then she stood upright and dusted her hands off, smiling smugly. "Now I can sleep in peace."


	15. In Which Somebody Said Something

**Chapter 15**

In Which Somebody Said Something

At five o'clock the next morning, a livid Amelia arose and proceeded to dress herself. Her wrath was on account of the theft; the burglar who broke into her apartment deserved to be dismembered, disemboweled and fed to the crows. Frick the slaves – Amelia's fangs drew blood on the inside of her mouth. Pathetic, worthless _animals!_ In her nine centuries of existence, she had seen more intelligent SLUGS. No daddang wonder the thief escaped so easily. Amelia hissed through her blood-soaked fangs. They were going to pay dearly.

She stalked down into the hall, which was not yet light with the lights off. Striding over to the panel, Amelia flipped the light switch and turned the lights on, angrily. While she was at it, she drew the curtains back from a nearby window.

But Amelia had no intention of lingering over the incredible landscapes that spread themselves out behind it. She stalked down the corridor to the slave's apartments and proceeded to batter the doors down.

"Get up! Get the frick up, you craven cur! You know which way up is, don't you? GET UP!"

* * *

In their apartment, Erika and Olga heard Amelia's hollering. Olga immediately sat up.

"Erika, hurry up. Erika, she'll bleed you _dry_ if you don't wake up. Erika, come on! I know you're awake."

Erika had gotten about four hours of sleep, and she sure as heck didn't feel like 'waking up.' But obviously she'd be bowelless and bloodless if she didn't, so she grudgingly obliged.

Opening her bleary eyes, Erika stretched miserably. She tumbled out of bed. Yawning, she stumbled over to her closet and took out her pressed slave's uniform, struggling into the prim dark dress and petite, ruffled white apron. She fumbled drowsily with the tiny buttons that went all the way down her back.

Sleepily undoing her tangly braid, Erika brushed her long blonde hair and redid it in a loose bun. She then proceeded to help Olga unbutton her nightdress, oblivious to the fact that their apartment had been broken into four and a half hours ago.

* * *

Taylor woke with a jerk and made a very undignified "waking up" sound. He had been dozing fitfully ever since the uproar, and had never really gotten to sleep.

He listened.

"Get up, you _filth_!" he could hear Amelia berating someone. He quickly glanced at the clock; what time was—FIVE IN THE MORNING!!!!!!!!

"One of these days, I am REALLY… going to shove a tennis ball down Amelia's pretty little throat," he mumbled. Tossing his blankets aside, Taylor jumped down to the floor (he had the top bunk). "Pierce, wake up. Hey, Pierce! Get up, sleepyhead!" Taylor tickled Pierce's bare foot that stuck out from under the covers.

Pierce emitted some unintelligible grunting sound and yanked his feet underneath the sheet. He was known for his morning temper – somehow even his hair seemed redder in the morning.

Giving a loud snort of disgust, Taylor yanked the blankets clear off the bed, tumbling the still-tangled Pierce forcefully onto the floor. This seemed to have the desired effect.

"Daddang it, stupid freakin' craphead!" Pierce yelled, leaping to his feet and kicking the blankets aside. He brandished a clenched fist. "It's either this or you leave me the frick alone!" His eyes blazed green.

Taylor replied simply, "If you did, Amelia sure as heck wouldn't leave you alone."

Pierce dropped his fist, swearing under his breath; turning away, he busied himself with dressing as Taylor woke up Tomáš.

Tomáš turned out to be much easier to wake than Pierce. He slid out of bed and stretched luxuriously on the carpet. "What time is it?" he asked, sleepily, glancing at the liquid crystal clock. "FIVE IN THE MORNING??? Amelia doesn't wake you up any earlier than FIVE?" he asked sarcastically.

"No, she usually gets us up at five-thirty," answered Taylor, wriggling out of his baggy nightshirt and hurriedly putting on his stiffly starched uniform. "She must be out of sorts on account of last night."

"No crap!" was Tomáš's only comment.

* * *

Leyba had been expecting Amelia's viler mood and was therefore prepared. She woke up immediately once she heard Amelia's wrathful shouts and dressed herself quickly. Hurrying down into the slave's apartments, she met a sleepy Erika just exiting her own room. Olga was not far behind.

Leyba instantly put on an accusing demeanor. "Really, Erika, why the heck _did_ you do it?" she said, reproachful. "I'm surprised you have the audacity to carry on as usual."

"Leyba, what in Samuel Helsinki are you talking about?" Erika asked irritably, suspicious of trickery. Leyba was infamous for trickery.

Leyba narrowed her snakelike eyes. "You know as well as I do," she returned.

Olga stepped up. "She doesn't know what the frick you're babbling about, Leyba," Olga said firmly. "You'd better explain yourself or Erika'll take what you said as an insult."

"Insult or no," Leyba rumbled, "it's true."

Erika's eyes turned bright cobalt with unspoken indignation, but Leyba continued, "Everyone knows by now that you were the intruder in Lady Amelia's apartment last night."

"You're a dang liar, Leyba!" Erika shot back. "My lawyer is going to make you look so stupid that not only will I never see the inside of a jail cell, but you'll be signing all your paychecks straight to me."

"Leyba, that is quite possibly the _worst_ and most _prejudiced_ accusation I've ever heard!" Olga shouted loudly.

Leyba's eyes glowed evilly; she was unfazed by Olga's vehemence. "She can deny it, if she wants, but no one'll believe her. Not after what she's done. After her room is searched they'll find the missing articles and more, too. Just a week ago I missed a sterling hand-mirror," she added.

"Since when do you have a sterling hand-mirror, Leyba?" Olga scoffed. "I was under the impression that we were lowly slaves with miserable pay."

Leyba whirled upon Olga, furious. "My grandmother willed it to me, if that's any of your daddang business!" she snarled. "Anyhow, what the shoot is it to you when there's a FILTHY WRETCHED THIEF not TWO FREAKING FEET from where we're standing?"

Erika recovered her senses, and with them came a flood of ire. "Frick you! FRICK YOU! You're a _liar_ and you're probably a freaking THIEF, too!" she fumed, not even caring that Amelia was only a short distance away.

Leyba stopped, startled for an instant out of her righteous façade. But in a moment she regained her composure. She gestured eloquently to Olga. "See? She admits it," she said. To Erika she hissed, "Don't worry, slut, it'll be proven soon. Don't think it won't."

"Go drink silver nitrate, you lying lycan scum!"

* * *

Several hours later, Michael Corvin was coming down the main staircase. He met Lucian in the hall.

"Mornin', Lucian," Michael said amiably.

"Hey, Michael," Lucian replied, rather tiredly. "I hope you had a nice rest after your long trip."

"Yeah, it was great. But, uh, you don't look so good yourself, Lucian," said Michael, scrutinizing him closely. "What the heck happened?"

"Oh, man," Lucian said. "Somebody broke into Amelia's apartment last night and stole her silver pendant."

"Whoa."

A weary grin tugged at Lucian's mouth. "We had to call the cops, and there was a huge ruckus. I don't think I slept more than five hours last night."

Michael was aghast. "I'm sorry, man."

"About what? The theft or my sleep?"

"Both, I guess." Michael laughed. "And I never heard a thing. Fancy that."

Lucian stared at him. "You mean you slept all night and never heard a single _sound_? That is totally not fair!"

Michael shrugged. "It's nuts, I know, but it's true. I sleep darn soundly."

Lucian grinned. "Yeah, I should have remembered that from when we were roommates in college. You remember that time when you were napping and Soren Istvan threw a grenade at our window – as a joke, so he said – and broke it? Heck, it blew up half the building, including _your room_. You never freaking _stirred_."

Michael laughed, somewhat ruefully. "Yeah, I fear I would be the perfect target for a burglar," he said. "I don't know what I'll do when I have my own house."

"Oh, that's easy," said Lucian carelessly. "Just marry somebody who sleeps lightly."

Michael was intrigued. "Great. Can you recommend a nice girl?"

Lucian rubbed his chin contemplatively. "Not really, no," he said thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I don't know of a whole lot. The few I do know are taken."

"Really?" Michael probed. "What about Sonja?"

Lucian gave him a swift, appraising glance and answered quickly, "I hardly think she'd make a good army wife. She's always told me that being home alone all the time sucks bees."

Michael looked crestfallen. "Aw, crap. Wait, what was all that stuff about an army?"

Lucian quickly changed the subject. "Hey, wanna see the library? I always like short visits before breakfast."

"Sounds good," said Michael. "Just the sort of thing to wake you up, eh?" He followed Lucian across the great hall.

Lucian grinned, opening the library door. "Actually, sometimes I've been known to fall asleep in here," he said, showing Michael in. "Not as soundly as you would, though," he added with a chuckle.

Michael looked around like a tourist in Washington D.C. "I wouldn't blame you for that, buddy. Just staring at the ceiling makes me dizzy," he said, gazing up at the far-off roof and the shelves that were as tall as skyscrapers. Book were everywhere. (Duh! Library!)

Lucian led Michael over to a shiny-topped table perched on an elegant rug, flanked on either side by a pair of comfortable-looking chairs. He sneezed. "Actually, the time I fell asleep was when Viktor was giving me a stern lecture on male responsibility. Don't ask because I won't tell," Lucian explained.

"Does he like to hang out here as well?" Michael asked, seating himself in one of the chairs.

"Yeah, well, I guess, but not in the morning, anyway—"

The unexpected sound of the door opening caught their ears. Lucian turned quickly around, expecting a slave.

The tall, grim figure of Viktor greeted his eyes as he strode toward the two young men.

"Oh, hey, Viktor!" exclaimed Lucian, staring.

"TOP o' the mornin' to ya!" Viktor drawled with a fake Irish accent, holding his hand out to Michael, who shook it in response.

"Thank you, uh—" Michael hesitated a moment as he frantically tried to remember what rank Viktor held. Was he a king, or………… princeduke? Emperor! That's of course. He was an emperor—no wait! He was a Lord. "Thank you, Lord Viktor. You and your inexplicable relative have my gratitude for the accommodations that I've been given."

Viktor looked pleased; the boy had a diplomatic streak in him. He thought it strange he didn't pursue the lawyer's profession. A smile creased his face – to Lucian's shock – and he said, "If you are uncomfortable in any way, just let us know. After all, it's our pleasure to entertain you, Mr. … uh… Corvin." Viktor tensed slightly.

Lucian was quick to perceive his inexplicable relative's tension without understanding it. "Viktor, it's nice to see you here at such an ungodly hour. Michael and I were just discussing how – um – pleasant the library was at this time. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, yes," Viktor said, and smiled graciously for the first time in Lucian's lifetime. Any anger he held against Lucian was carefully concealed under his benevolent guise.

Michael's eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly at Viktor's reply, but whatever was on his mind, he said nothing about it. "So tell me," he said, "what books do you enjoy? I really like Stephen King's _Nightmares and Dreamscapes_, but, as he is unique in every way, I have yet to find something equal to it in enjoyment."

"Ah," said Viktor, jerking a finger at him. "I can tell you're a man of taste. Pity my inexplicable relative doesn't share such a virtue." And Viktor winked at Lucian, who grinned playfully. "Oh, Viktor, don't be so condemning," he said.

Viktor turned back to Michael. "I think you'd enjoy Michael Crichton's works. They're quite thought-provoking and informative, not to mention entertaining."

"Michael Crichton?" Michael asked curiously. "Oh, yes. I've heard a lot about him. Which of his books do you like the most?"

Lucian watched in amusement as Viktor, searching the shelves, selected a dog-eared paperback with dinosaur bones on the cover.

"I," said Viktor, "recommend _Jurassic Park_. It's my personal favorite, and one of his best novels to date." He handed the book to Michael.

"Thank you." He bowed, accepting the book.

Lucian's attention was suddenly distracted by some distant noise. "Did you hear that?" he asked, straining his ears.

"What?" asked Michael, glancing up.

"That noise."

"What noise?"

"That noise I just heard."

"No I…… oh yeah! Yeah. It sounded just like… a complete berk asking irritating questions… oh, good, it stopped now."

Viktor rose – rather hastily, Michael thought. "Please excuse me," he said abruptly, and hurried out, shutting the door behind him.

Lucian and Michael looked at each other quizzically. Lucian shrugged.

"He's a weirdo."

* * *

In the upper hall, Amelia was shouting again. She was outraged.

"YES! I want the ENTIRE apartment cleaned – the floor vacuumed and cleaned, the ceiling and walls scrubbed, every window washed! I want this apartment to be _exactly the way it was yesterday_ by the time you are done, is that clear? _Spotless!"_

"Oh, come on—" protested the two hapless slaves.

Amelia gave them no time – and no chance. "IF you do not, I will PEEL THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES!" As she turned on her heel to leave, Amelia almost collided with Viktor, who was hastening up the staircase.

Viktor quelled a snort of impatience. "Amelia, it would really be great if you'd suppress your feelings, or at least your voice. I could hear you all the way down in the library, and so could our guest," he added, with significance. "Please comply."

Amelia hissed venomously at him. "I do not _care_ if we are entertaining a guest," she said frigidly. "It is my responsibility to see that the wretched creatures get their work done, and I will _not_ hesitate to resort to more drastic methods, if need be." With another hiss, she stormed past him and swept down the staircase, leaving two hopelessly staring slaves in her wake.

Viktor rolled his eyes and stalked down the hall in the opposite direction. "Something has got to be done about her," he growled. "This is getting out of hand."

* * *

In the dining room, one lone slave girl was racing to set the table for breakfast (the other slaves, due to Amelia's lethal mood, had been recruited for unnecessary and unusual jobs – like waxing the floor of the picture gallery). She scurried back and forth, transporting china and silver from their cabinets and drawers to the long table, then quickly laying them out. The silver gleamed brilliantly – Amelia had ordered it polished to a mirror hue before breakfast – and the crystal goblets sparkled.

"Daddang it!" Erika exclaimed, discovering that she had laid the knives in the wrong position. Hurriedly resetting them, Erika levitated back into the kitchen for the linen napkins, which she had inadvertently left on the counter.

Brushing past the other slave girls who were rushing about with various duties to perform, Erika made her way as fast as possible to the place where she had left the napkins, only to discover that they were conveniently absent.

"Darn it!" she yelled, searching the whole of the immaculate, shining counter. The sun lit up the whole scene brilliantly, shining brightly through the freshly-washed window. Erika wished the sun would hide behind a cloud.

"What's wrong?" asked Olga, none too unhurried herself as she walked briskly past Erika to a tall cabinet in the corner.

"The freaking napkins are gone – the ones for the breakfast table. Do you know what happened to them?" asked Erika frantically, searching about as if hoping that they would magically reappear. The sun was as relentless as ever, yet for some reason it didn't incinerate Erika.

"I think I saw Jázmin take them back to the storage room," offered Olga, her head in the glowing, dark wood cabinet as she rummaged through the contents. "You could look there."

"Thanks," said Erika breathlessly, and hurried off toward the room. She pushed the kitchen's large, swinging door open, disregarding its loud, creaking protest, and ran down the empty, forlorn hall, her heels making sharp clicking noises that echoed her haste in the silence of the passage. How very poetic. Behind her, in the kitchen, Erika could still hear the busy, bustling noises of haste that invariably followed Amelia's orders, but in the hall a certain hush had settled. In other words, it was loud in the kitchen, but quiet in the hall.

Reaching the door, Erika opened it and slipped in. For some odd reason, Erika decided not to make too much noise. The silence seemed… quiet. Or maybe it was the uneasy feeling that somewhere… somehow… _a duck was watching her!!!!_

Erika shook her head, trying to clear her head of the absurd thoughts. She cast her eyes about the room, looking for the missing napkins.

And then she saw it. _A DUCK!_

Just a flicker in the darkest corner – since the room was unoccupied, there was no light except what seeped through the heavy curtains – but it was a flicker of something material. She couldn't guess what it was – it was gone in an instant – but it had definitely been there. The mellow sunlight, softened by the darker and heavier curtains, never faltered an instant, and Erika knew that the light couldn't be blamed for what she saw.

But what was it?

Probably her imagination.

* * *

Back in the library, Michael was engrossed in Michael Crichton's _Jurassic Park_, while Lucian was on the Web; sunlight streamed in and over their shoulders from a window behind them. And such a window it was that let the light in!!!!!!!!!! It was BIG!!!!!!!! And what's more, you could *gasp* SEE THROUGH IT!!!

Over the window ran a narrow balcony, with gracefully shaped uprights and a slender, elegant banister. The window was continued – so to speak – at that level, shedding light over the length of the slim balcony, which otherwise would have been dark (ummmmmmm... huh?). The manicured grounds spread themselves out in a glorious array beyond the window, and one could linger on the balcony for hours, gazing down at the wondrous sight. Of course, that's not counting the mind-numbing boredom that would come with sitting there staring for hours on end.

The walls were covered in innumerable, richly hued wood shelves, in warm chestnut wood. Books of every genre from every part of the world lay neatly on the shelves, waiting to be read.

Halfway up the wall, dividing the lower shelves from the upper, was a balcony, running along the entire perimeter of the room. It could be reached by means of a slim, spiral staircase. The staircase itself was no more than six feet in diameter, but perfectly adequate for the purpose, as well as adding a grace to the bold, expansive room.

Another staircase – a miniature straight one, complete with wheels – stood at attention, should anyone wish to reach the higher shelves. These were just under the balcony, inaccessible from above but too high for a man of normal height to reach.

Here and there, in the great expanse of floorboards and rugs, were little islands of comfort: a table with a lamp, an easy chair or two, and the occasional couch. Lucian and Michael were seated in one of these islands; Michael was engrossed in his novel, Lucian was at his laptop talking about his coming to Salt Lake City on BigSoccer with a bunch of RSL fans.

The room was L-shaped: at one end was the window, like a big flat clear thing; at the other, it was crowned with a DOOR through which people WALKED! It opened slowly, and Sonja entered the room. She hurried around the corner to where the two young men could be found.

"Lucian," she said. The pitch in her voice was turned all the way down, Michael noted, without looking at her.

Lucian's head jerked up. "Oh, hey," he said, relaxing. "Morning, Sonja."

"Good morning," she said. "And good morning to you, Michael," she added, looking at him.

Michael closed his book, looked up at her and smiled. "Mornin', beautiful. Nice to see you here before breakfast."

Sonja made some hasty acknowledgement, then turned quickly back to Lucian. "Lucian, I've been robbed. My dressing room vanity is completely empty, and my pearls are gone."

"_What_?"

Viktor strode toward them for the second time that day, his brow darkening like a darkening brow. "What did you say?" he asked again. His voice trembled with veiled wrath. Michael, the unattached observer, managed to grasp the fact that Viktor was rather angry.

"You know those pearl combs and stuff that Lucian gave me?" Sonja said.

"How could I possibly forget? What about them?"

"They're gone." There was a slight tremor in her voice which still sounded like James Earl Jones.

Lucian's heart hammered, not only with anger but with joy as well. He managed to comprehend that Sonja cared about the pearls. What girl wouldn't? They're freakin' pearls, for cryin' out loud! Aloud, he said, "We will find the thief and bring him to justice."

"I concur!" Viktor brought his clenched fist down on the reading table. The force of impact broke it in two. "The theft of Amelia's silver pendant was one thing, but that the thief should actually have the gall to break into a girl's _dressing room_ and steal her most treasured belongings—" The muscles on Viktor's jaw stood taut and his face was rigid with rage.

Sonja seemed to have recovered herself somewhat. She viewed Viktor's vehemence with dismay. "I appreciate your feelings and your willingness to help, Viktor," she said, "but I don't think anger will help anything right now. Let's have some breakfast before taking any action. It'll help us clear our minds and enable us to think more clearly.

Viktor's face relaxed somewhat, but the small muscle in his jaw remained tense. "You're right," he admitted, for once sounding like Lucian. "Let's get something to eat." He motioned for the two young men – one stared at the wreckage of the table, the other stood silently, listening – to follow.

After two more seconds, Lucian exploded in dismay, "AAAAAGH, MY COMPUTER!"


End file.
